afraffr/ 


r 


GIFT  OF 
A.    P.    Morriso^ 


POEMS  OF  AMERICA. 


SOUTHERN  STATES.— BRITISH 
AMERICA. 


POEMS  OF   PLACES. 

EDITED,  WITH  AN  INTRODUCTION,  BY 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"LITTLE  CLASSIC"   STYLE.     RED   EDGES-     31   volumes. 

Price  $1.00  a  volume.     The  set,  $25.00. 
Vols.  1-4.  England  and  Wales. 

5.  Ireland. 

6-8.  Scotland,  Denmark,  Iceland,  Norway  and  Swe 
den. 

9,  10.  France  and  Savoy. 
11-13.  Italy. 
14,  15.  Spain,  Portugal,  Belgium,  and  Holland. 

16.  Switzerland  and  Austria. 
17,  18.  Germany. 

19.  Greece  and  Turkey  (in  Europe). 

20.  Russia,  including  Asiatic  Russia. 
21-23.  Asia. 

24.  Africa. 
25,  26.  New  England. 

27.  Middle  States. 

28.  Southern  States. 

29.  Western  States. 

30.  British  America,  Mexico,  South  America. 

31.  Oceanica. 

"  Those  who  have  not  a  library  of  the  poets  will  find  this  se 
ries  a  repo  itory  of  their  choicest  productions,  and  all  associ 
ated  with  some'place  of  interest."  —  New  York  Observer. 

"It  is  surprising  to  find  how  very  rich  the  selections  are 
from  the  best  poets  of  all  lands.  Each  volume  is  a  choice 
repertory  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  language."  —  Southern 
Quarterly. 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO.,  BOSTON,  MASS. 


POEMS    OF   AMERICA 


EDITED   BY 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW 


SOUTHERN  STATES.— BRITISH 
AMERICA 

WITH   ILLUSTRATIONS 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 


1882 


GIFT  OP 
fj.f.  r*l 


COPIEIGHT,   1878. 


- 


OOWTEIsTTS. 


SOUTHEEN   STATES. 

INTRODUCTORY.  PAGE 

MARYLAND p.  Freneau   ...  1 

MY  MARYLAND j.  R.  Randall    .     .  3 

To  THE  VIRGINIAN  VOYAGE M.  Drayton  ...  5 

WASHINGTON j,  R.  Lowell  .     .    '.  8 

SOUTH  CAROLINA p.  H.  Hayne     .    .  9 

GEORGIA «        «               .11 

FLORIDA W.  H.  C.  Hosier  '.  15 

"  I  WAS  A  STRANGER,  AND  YE  TOOK  ME  IN  "  .  J.  G.   Whittler    .      .  16 

ALABAMA , c.  T.  Brooks ...  17 

LOUISIANA p.  Remans    ...  18 

TEXAS J^G.  Whittier    .    .  20 

SONG  OP  TEXAS W.  H.  C.  Hosmer  .  23 

ALLEGHANY  MOUNTAINS,  GA. 

AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS  IN  GEORGIA  .  .  H.  R.  Jackson  .  .  25 
ARLINGTON,  VA. 

ARLINGTON s.  M .  Carpenter  .  26 

ASHLEY,  THE  RIVER,  S.  C. 

MAGNOLIA  GARDEN p.  H.  Hayne  .  .  28 

ATCHAFALAYA,  THE  LAKES,  LA. 

ATCHAFALAYA H.  W.  Longfelloiv  .  29 

BALTIMORE,  MD. 

THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER p.  S.  Key  ....  33 

BAYOU  PLAQUEMINE,  LA. 

BAYOU  PLAQUEMINE H.  W.  Longfellow  .  34 

BEAUFORT,  S.  C. 

THE  FISHERMAN  OP  BEAUFORT     ...  F.  D.  Gage    ...  37 


M103156 


VI  CONTENTS. 

BETHEL,  VA. 

BETHEL A.  J.  H.  Duganne  .    39 

BLUE  RIDGE,  VA. 

A  GROUP  OF  SONNETS P.  H.  Hayne     .     .    42 

A  BIT  OF  AUTUMN  COLOR M.  J.  Preston     .    .    44 

BRANDON,  VA. 

THE  WINDOW-PANES  AT  BRANDON   .    .    .    J.  R.  Thompson     .    44 

CATAWBA,  THE  RIVER,  N.  C.  AND  S.  C. 

THE  CATAWBA  RIVER J.  s.  Kidney.    .    .    47 

CHANCELLORSVILLE,  VA. 

THE  WOOD  OF  CHANCELLORSVILLE    .    .    .    D.  R.  German    .    .    51 

CHARLESTON,    S.  C. 

CHARLESTON ff.  Timrod    ...    53 

MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY "     «'         ...    55 

CHARLESTOWN,  VA. 

BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE J.  G.  liniittier   .    .     56 

CHICKAMAUGA,  THE  RIVER,   TENN. 

BY  CHICKAMAUGA  RIVER H.  Butterworth  .    .     57 

COLUMBUS,  MISS. 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY F.  M.  Finch  ...    61 

COOSA,   THE  RIVER,  GA. 

THE  RIVER  COOSA W.  J.  Gray  son  .    .    63 

DISMAL   SWAMP,  VA. 

THE  LAKE  OF  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP    .    .    .  T.  Moore   ....  65 

THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP  .     .    .  H.  W.  Longfellow  .  67 

THE  EDGE  OF  THE  SWAMP W.  G.  Simms     .     .  68 

EUTAW,  S.  C. 

To  THE  MEMORY  OF  THE  AMERICANS  WHO 
FELL  AT  EUTAW P.  Freneau   ...     70 

FREDERICK   CITY,  MD. 

BARBARA  FRIETCHIE J.  G.  Whittier   .     .    71 

FREDERICKSBURG,  VA. 

FREDERICKSBURG T.  B.  Aldrich    .  .74 

IN  THE  OLD  CHURCHYARD F.  W.  Loring     .  .     75 

BAY  BELLY F.  H .  Gassaway  .     76 

GOSHEN  PASS,  VA. 

THROUGH  THE  GOSHEN  PASS Anonymous  ...    81 


CONTENTS.  Vll 

HAMPTON,  VA. 

THREE  SUMMER  STUDIEB J.  B.  Hope,     ...    83 

HAMPTON  ROADS,  VA. 

THE  ATTACK T.  B.  Read    ...    86 

THE  CUMBERLAND  * H.  W.  Longfellow  .    88 

HARPER'S  FERRY,  VA. 

How  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPEE'S  FERRY     E.  C.  Stedman   .     .    90 

HATTERAS,   THE  CAPE,   N.  C. 

HATTERAS P.  Freneau    ...    97 

CAPE  HATTERAS J.  W.  Holden     .     .  100 

THE  WRECK T.  H.  M'NaugJiton    102 

ISLE  OF   FOUNTS,   GA. 

ISLE  OP  FOUNTS  :  AN  INDIAN  TEADITION  .    F.  Hemans    .    .    .105 
JAMESTOWN,   VA. 

ODE  TO  JAMESTOWN J.  K.  Paulding  .    .  108 

JOHN  SMITH'S  APPROACH  TO  JAMESTOWN  .    J.  B.  Hope-     .     .    .  112 

KEKOUGHTON,   THE  RIVER,  VA. 

SUNSET  ON  THE  KEKOUGHTON  RIVER    .    .         «      «       .    ,    „  114 

KITTY   HAWK,  N.  C. 

THE  WRECK  OP  THE  HURON E.  M.  Thomas   .    .  116 

MALVERN   HILL,  VA. 

A  MESSAGE E.  S.  Phelps  ...  117 

MANASSAS,  VA. 

MAY-DAY  AT  MANASSAS G.  B.  Wallace,  .  .  119 

MEXICO,  THE  GULF. 

SEA- WEEDS A.  C.  Ketchum  .     .  120 

THE  BURIAL  OF  THE  DANE H.  H.  Brownell.     .  122 

MOBILE,   THE  BAY,  ALA. 

THE  BAY-FIGHT H .  H  Brownell .     .  124 

MOUNT   MITCHELL,   N.  C. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  BURIAL L.  H.  Sigourney     .  140 

MOUNT  TRYON,   N.  C. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  WINDS Anonymous  .    .     .143 

MOUNT  VERNON,   VA. 

MOUNT  VERNON D.  Humphreys  .     .  145 

MOUNT  VERNON G.  Mellen  ....  147 

NEW  ORLEANS,   LA. 

THE  RIVER  FIGHT     ,  .    H.  H.  Brownell .    .  151 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

NEWPORT  NEWS,  VA. 

A  NAMELESS  GRAVE H.  W.  Longfellow  .  160 

OCONEE,   THE  RIVER,   GA. 

OCONEB H.E.  Jackson    .     .  161 

PEAKS  OF  OTTER,   VA. 

To  TUB  PEAKS  OF  OTTER J.  T.  Washington  .  163 

PORT  ROYAL,  S.  C. 

AT  PORT  ROYAL J.  G.  Wliittler    .     .  165 

POTOMAC,   THE   RIVER,   VA. 

THE  PICKET-GUARD E.  L.  Beers    .  .  .169 

A  POTOMAC  PICTURE E.  A.  Allen   .  .  .171 

BY  THE  POTOMAC T.  B.  Aldrich  .  .  172 

NIGHT  SCENE A.  M.  Bolles .  .  .173 

RAPPAHANNOCK,   THE  RIVER,   VA. 

Music  IN  CAMP J.  R.  Thompson      .  175 

REEDY  RIVER,   S.  C. 

THE  FALLS Anonymous  .     .    .  178 

RICHMOND,   VA. 

IN  LIBBY  PRISON,  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE,  1863-64  F.  A.  Bartleson .     .  179 
THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG    ......    Anonymous  .    .     .180 

ROANOKE,  VA. 

RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE J.  G.  WTiittier   .     .  182 

RODMAN'S  POINT,  N.  C. 

READY P.  Carey   ....  186 

ST.    AUGUSTINE,   FLA. 

ST.  AUGUSTINE Anonymous  .         .  187 

DOLORES  .     .     ..•..?»." C.  F.  Woolson    .    .  188 

ST.    CATHERINE'S,   THE  ISLAND,  GA. 

ST.  CATHERINE'S P.  Freneau   .    .    .191 

ST.   SIMON'S   ISLAND,   GA. 

THE  BEES  OF  ST.  SIMON'S Anonymous  .    .     .193 

SAN  ANTONIO,   TEX. 

MISSION  SAN  ANTONIO G.  D.  Prentice   .     .  193 

SANTEE,  THE  RIVER,    S.  C. 

SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN W.  C.  Bryant     .     .  195 

SALLIE  ST.  CLAIRE G.  P.  Morris          .  198 


CONTENTS.  IX 

SAVANNAH,  GA. 


SAVANNAH    

THE  DEATH  OP  JASPER  

A.  S.  Burroughs 
R.  M.  Charlton  . 

.  199 
.  200 

8HENANDOAH,   THE  VALLEY,   VA. 

BY   THE   SilEXANDOAH        .       .      . 

E.  D.  Proctor 

203 

A  NOVEMBER  NOCTURNE     

M.  J.  Preston 

206 

STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY    

Anonymous  .    . 

.  207 

SULLIVAN'S  ISLAND,   S.  C. 
BY  THE  AUTUMN  SEA     

P.  H.  Hayne      . 

.  209 

SUMTER,   THE   FORT,   S.  C. 
TWILIGHT  ON  SUMTER     

R.  H.  Stoddard  . 

.  211 

SUWANEE,  THE  RIVER,   FLA. 

OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME     

S.  C.  Foster   .     . 

.  212 

TALLULAH  (TERRORA),  THE   RIVER,   GA 
THE  RIVER  TALLULAH    
TALLULAH     
TALLULAH     

W.  J.  Grayson  . 
J.  M.  Legare  .     . 
P.  H.  Hayne.    . 

.  213 
.  215 

.  217 

TOCCOA,   THE  FALLS,    GA. 
TOCCOA    

J,  ./IT.   LCQ(tT6  . 

219 

VICKSBURG,   MISS. 
THE  BOMBARDMENT  OP  VICKSBURG  .     .    . 

P.  H.  Hayne  .    . 

.  222 

WACHULLA   SPRING,  FLA. 

THE  WACHULLA  SPRING      .    . 

C  -A   Dvbosc 

230 

WASHINGTON,   D.  C. 
A  SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY. 
SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL     
THE  NESTS  AT  WASHINGTON 

E.  Harte  .    .     . 
E.  A.  Allen   .    . 
/.  J.  Piatt     .    . 

.  228 
.  231 
.  233 

WILMINGTON,  N.  C. 
RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE     .    .     . 

W.  W.  Harney  . 

235 

WINCHESTER,  VA. 

SHERIDAN'S  RIDE 

T.  B.  Read 

241 

\VOODSTOCK,  VA. 

MUHLENBERG      

243 

YORKTOWN,   VA. 

YORKTOWN    

J.  G.  Whittier   . 

.  245 

xn 


CONTENTS. 


LABRADOR. 

OFF  LABRADOR 
THE  SPIRIT  GUIDE 


T.  S.  Collier 
A.  Lamed 


MONTMORENCY,  THE  RIVER,  CANADA. 

THE  MONTMORENCY  WATERFALL  AND  CONE    L.  E.  Landon 

MONTREAL,    CANADA. 

MOUNT  ROYAL  .  


NEWFOUNDLAND,   THE  ISLAND. 

PRIMA  VISTA    .    . 


OTTAWA,   CANADA. 

IMPERIUM  IN  IMPERIO 

OTTAWA,    THE  RIVER,  CANADA. 

THE  FALLS  OF  THE  CHAUDIERE,  OTTAWA  . 

PRINCE  EDWARD,  THE  ISLAND. 

AN  INDIAN  SUMMER'S  DAY 


C.  Sangster  . 
T.  D.  McGee . 
T.  W.  Parsons 
C.  Sangster  . 
Anonymous  . 


.  42 

.  43 

.  45 

.  46 

.  48 

.  50 

.  52 

.  54 


QUEBEC,   CANADA. 

MEMORIES  OF  QUEBEC W.  Kirby  ....  55 

QUEBEC A.  B.  Street  ...  56 

To  THE  URSULINES C.  Gil-man     ...  57 

ON  THE  TAKING  OF  QUEBEC 0.  Goldsmith.     .    .  58 

WOLFE  AND  MONTCALM C.  Sangster    ...  59 

QUINTE,  THE  BAY,   CANADA. 

THE  BAY  OF  QUINTE ...  62 

RED  RIVER,   CANADA. 

THE  RED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR J.  G.  Whittier    .    .    64 

RIDEAU,  THE  LAKE,   CANADA. 

RIDEAU  LAKE C.  Sangster    ...    65 

ST.    ANN'S,  CANADA. 

THOMAS  MOORE  AT  ST.  ANN'S      .    .     .    .     T.  D.  McGee  ...     67 

ST.  FRANCIS,  THE  LAKE,  CANADA. 

LAKE  ST.  FRANCIS C.  Sangster    ...    69 

ST.    JOHN,   N.  B. 

ST.  JOHN J.  G.  Whittier    .    .    72 

ST.  LAWRENCE  (CADARAQUI),  THE 
RIVER. 

CADARAQUI T.  Moore  ....    77 

A  CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG "        ....    78 

ST.  LAWRENCE  RIVER     '. Anonymous  .         .    79 


CONTENTS.  Xlll 

THE  COTEAU  RAPID Anonymous  ...  80 

RAPIDS  OF  THE  CEDARS C.  Sangster    ...  81 

RAPIDS  OF  THE  LACHINE ...  82 

INVOCATION H.  Rich     ....  84 

THE  THOUSAND  ISLES J.  R.  Ramsay     .    .  86 

LAKE  OF  THE  THOUSAND  ISLANDS    .    .    .  C.  Sangster    ...  88 

ST.    LAWRENCE,    THE  GULF. 

THE  GULF  OF  ST.  LAWRENCE A.  Domett ....  89 

THE  LORD'S-DAY  GALE E.  C.  Stedman   .     .  91 

ON  PASSING  DEADMAN'S  ISLAND  .    .    .    .  T.  Moore  ....  97 

ST.    REGIS,   CANADA. 

THE  BELL  OF  ST.  REGIS L.  H.  Sigourney      .    98 

THAMES,   THE  RIVER,    CANADA. 

TECUMSEH C.  A.  Jones    .    .    .  100 


DANISH   AMERICA. 

GREENLAND. 

GREENLAND  UNDER  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  THE 

MORAVIANS W.  Cowper     ...  103 

GREENLAND W.  L.  Bowles     .     .  104 

GREENLAND J.  Montgomery  .    .  105 


MEXICO. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

MEXICO J.  Barlow.     .  .  .117 

MEXICO N.  Michdl     .  .  .118 

RUINS  IN  MEXICO  AND  CENTRAL  AMERICA  .  7.  McLellan  .  .  .118 

EL  PALO  SANTO ,     .     .     .  F.  F.  Victor  .  .  .122 

THE  FALLEN  BRAVE G.  P.  Morris.  .  .  123 

ACAPULCO. 

THE  LOST  GALLEON B.  Harte   ....  125 

BUENA   VISTA. 

THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA     .    .     .     .    J.  G.  WTiittier    .     .  131 
THE  SOLDIER  OF  BUENA  VISTA    .     .     .    .     H .  Morford   .    .     .136 

CHOLULA. 

CHOLULA N.  Michdl     .    .    .137 

MEXICO,    THE  CITY. 

MEXICO .    R.  Southey     .     .     .  139 

MEXICO    .  «...  141 


XIV  CONTENTS. 

MICOAT. 

MICOAT N.  Michell  .  .  .141 

MONTEREY. 

MONTEREY C.  F.  Ho/man    .    .  143 

VICTOR  GALBRAITH H.  W.  Longfellow  .  144 

ORIZABA. 

ORIZABA R.  H.  Home .  .  .146 

PALENQUE. 

PALENQUE N.  Michell  .  .  .148 

POPOCATEPETL,  THE  MOUNTAIN. 

POPOCATEPETL W.  H.  Lytle  .  .  .150 

QTJERETARO. 

MAXIMILIAN J.  G.  Saxe  ....  152 

MAXIMILIAN  AT  QUERETARO M.  J.  Preston  .  .  153 

RIO  GRANDE  (RIO  BRAVO)  DEL  NORTE. 

Rio  GRANDE  DEL  NORTE R.  Sonthey     .     .    .  155 

Rio  BRAVO C.  F.  Hoffman  .  .  156 

TULOOM,  YUCATAN. 

TULOOM E.  W.  Ellsworth  .  159 

UXMAL,  YUCATAN. 

CONTEMPLATION  OF  THE  UXMAL  RUINS  .    .     V.  Voldo  ....  163 

UXMAL N.  Michell     .         .  164: 


CENTBAL  AMERICA. 

COPAN,  GUATEMALA. 

COPAN N.  Michell     .     .    .  167 

COPAN     .    .    <i.-v .'.'' J.  Miller  .    .     .    .169 

COPAN B.  Leighton  .    .    .169 

NICARAGUA. 

IN  NICARAGUA J.  Miller  ....  170 

WALKER'S  GRAVE.  "       ....  174 


SOUTH  AMERICA. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

SOUTH  AMERICA W.  L.  Bowles     .    .  177 

SOUTH  AMERICA N.  Michell     .    .     .178 

THE  REVENGE  OF  AMERICA •  '.  Warton     .    .    .179 

YERBA  MATE B.  Southey    ...  180 


CONTENTS.  XV 

AMAZON,   THE  RIVER  (ORELLANA). 

TIIE  RIVER  AMAZON J.  Warton     .    .    .183 

THE  CRY  OP  A  LOST  SOUL J.  G.  Whittier   .    .  183 

ANDES,  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

THE  ANDES W.  L.  Bowles     .  .  185 

THE  VALLEY  IN  THE  ANDES .  •  186 

MORNING  ON  THE  ANDES .  .  187 

CHURCH'S  "  HEART  OF  THE  ANDES  "    .     .  T.  B.  Read    .    .  .188 

BRAZIL. 

FREEDOM  IN  BRAZIL J.  G.  IVhittter    .    .  189 

AGASSIZ  IN  BRAZIL F.  Bates    ....  191 

BUENOS   AYRES. 

NATIONAL  HYMN D.  V.  Lopez  .    .     .192 

COLOMBIA   (NEW  GRANADA). 

BOLIVAR J.  G.  Whittier    .     .  195 

THE  SWORD  OF  BOLIVAR Anonymous  .     .     .197 

CORCOVADO,  THE  MOUNTAIN,  BRAZIL. 

THE  CORCOVADO W.  Gibson     .    .     .  200 

GALLO,   THE  ISLAND,   ECUADOR. 

CROSSING  THE  LINE C.  F.  Bates    .    .     .206 

GUIANA. 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH "  ...  207 

LAGUAYRA. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  ROAD  FROM  LAGUATRA  TO 
CARACCAS j;  B.  Hope     .    .    .209 

PAMPAS,   THE. 

THE  SOVEREIGN  OF  THE  PAMPAS  ....    5.  Bridges     .    .    .211 

PANAMA  (DARIEN). 

THE   SHIP   CANAL  — FROM   THE  ATLANTIC 
TO  THE  PACIFIC F.  Lieber  ....  213 

BALBOA T.  B.  Read    .     .    .217 

ON  A  HEADLAND  IN  THE  BAY  OF  PANAMA     B.  W.  Procter    .    .  219 
PERU. 

THE  DAMSEL  OF  PERU W.  C.  Bryant     .     .  220 

PUERTO  BELLO,  NEW  GRANADA. 

ADMIRAL  HOSIER'S  GHOST R.  Glover  .     ...  222 

RIO  JANEIRO,   BRAZIL. 

Rio  JANEIRO J.  D.  Lang     .    .    .226 


xvi 


CONTENTS. 


WEST   INDIES. 

INTRODUCTORY. 

DISCOVERY  OF  THE  ANTILLES J.  Montgomery  .     .  227 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  ANTILLES H.  H.  BroivneU  .    .  229 

CARRIBBEANA P.  Freneau    ...  230 

CUBA,  THE  ISLAND. 

CUBA J.  M.  Heredia    .    .  233 

SEASON  OF  THE  NORTHERS "              .       234 

GAN-EDEN,  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  ANTILLES  M.  B.  Clarke.    .     .  236 

ODE  ON  REVISITING  CUBA M.  Brooks      .    .     .  238 

FAREWELL  TO  CUBA "           ...  242 

DR.  KANE  IN  CUBA E.  H.  Whittier  .    .  243 

CUBA E.  Sargent     .    .    .245 

CUBA J.  T.  Trowbridge    .  245 

HAVANA,    CUBA. 

THE  TOMB  OF  COLUMBUS         //.  H.  Brownell .     .  246 

EL  PASEO ,    .    .  T.  Durfee  .     .    .     .252 

FAREWELL  TO  HAVANA J.  W.  Howe   .     .    .254 

JAMAICA,   THE  ISLAND. 

PORT  ROYAL P.  Freneau    .    .     .  255 

MATANZAS,    CUBA. 

THE  SEA-BREEZE  AT  MATANZAS   .     .     .    .  E.  Sargent     .     .    .  257 

SAINT   CHRISTOPHER,   THE  ISLAND. 

SAINT  CHRISTOPHER J.  Grainger  .     .    .  258 

SAN   SALVADOR,   THE  ISLAND. 

SAN  SALVADOR J-  ^illie  ....  259 

THE  LANDING  OF  COLUMBUS S.  Rogers  ....  260 

SANTA   CRUZ 

SANTA  CRUZ S.  B.  Stebbins     .     .  262 

SANTA  CRUZ P.  Freneau    ...  263 

THE  OUTLOOK  FROM  SANTA  CRUZ     .    .     .  S.  B.  Stebbins     .    .  265 

THE  HILLS  OF  SANTA  CRUZ •     •  266 

TRINIDAD,    THE   ISLAND. 

PORT-OF-SPAIN L.  C.  Strong  ...  268 

YUMURI,    THE  VALLEY,  CUBA. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  YUMURI W.  Gibson     .    .    .  269 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

SOUTHERN    STATES. 

PAGE 

"  Tangled  vine  and  tree  " 14 

Fort  McHenry 33 

•"  By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river  "  .  .  .  .  61 
"  'T  is  a  wild  spot,  and  hath  a  gloomy  look  "  .  .  ,68 
"  The  spreading  branches  with  o'er  ripened  fruit  "  .  84 

Harper's  Ferry,  Va 9° 

Farragut 127 

The  Picket  Guard 169 

Libby  Prison i?9 

Fort  Sumter  .  .  .  .  .'  .  .  .  .211 
"  The  water-lilies  parting  " 227 


BRITISH   AMERICA. 

•"  Here  as  we  mount  and  leave  the  coast  below  "  .3 

"  So,  being  finally  beset  " 16 

"  There,  riding  like  sea-gulls,  with  wings  at  rest  "     .  .29 

"  And  we  have  streams  that  run  as  clear  "...  41 

"  By  gloomy  woods  " 54 

"  Of  the  hoarse  billows  from  the  deeps  "...  63 

"  Dim  as  those  purple  depths  unseen "              .         .  .88 

A  Mexican  Farm-House 118 

"  The  palpitating  silver  snow 

Glitters,  then  seems  to  blush  and  burn  "    .        .  .  147 
"  Beneath  the  mountains'  glittering  heads 

A  boundless  ocean  of  gray  vapor  spreads  "       .        .  187 

"  Through  forests  dense  " 201 

"  In  the  West  Indies  " 237 


SOUTHERN   STATES. 


UsTTEODUUTOET. 


MARYLAND, 

T  AVED  by  vast  depths  that  swell  on  either  side 
-1^  Where  Chesapeake  intrudes  his  midway  tide, 
Gay  Maryland  attracts  the  admiring  eye, 
i  A  fertile  region  T??TOI  Intemperate  sky.j 
In  years  elapsed,  her  heroes  of  renown 
From  British  Anna  named  one  favorite  town  : 
But,  lost  her  commerce,  though  she  guards  their  laws, 
Proud  Baltimore  that  envied  commerce  draws. 

Few  are  the  years  since  there,  at  random  placed, 
Some  wretched  huts  her  quiet  port  disgraced; 
Safe  from  all  winds,  and  covered  from  the  bay, 
There,  at  his  ease,  the  thoughtless  native  lay.  ^    C^ 

Now,  rich  and  great,  no  more  a  slave  to  sloth, 
She  claims  importance  from  her  towering  growth,  — 
High  in  renown,  her  streets  and  domes  arranged, 
A  group  of  cabins  to  a  city  changed. 

Though  rich  at  home,  to  foreign  lands  they  stray, 
For  foreign  trappings  trade  their  wealth  away. 
Politest  manners  through  their  towns  prevail, 


2  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  pleasure  revels,  though  her  funds  should  fail; 
In  each  gay  dome  soft  music  charms  its  lord, 
Where  female  beauty  strikes  the  trembling  chord; 
On1  the  fine  air  wit'i  nicest  touches  dwells, 
While  from  ohe  tongue  the  according  ditty  swells: 
Proud  to  be  seen,  't  ic  theirs  to  place  delight 
In  dances  measured  by  the  winter's  night, 
The  evening  feast,  that  wine  and  mirth  prolong, 
The  lamp  of  splendor,  and  the  midnight  song. 

*  *  * 

In  those,  whom  choice  or  different  fortunes  place 
In  rural  scenes,  a  different  mind  we  trace; 
There  solitude,  that  still  to  dulness  tends, 
To  rustic  forms  no  sprightly  action  lends ; 
Heeds  not  the  garb,  mopes  o'er  the  evening  fire; 
And  bids  the  maiden  from  the  man  retire. 
On  winding  floods  the  lofty  mansion  stands, 
That  casts  a  mournful  view  o'er  neighboring  lands; 
There  the  sad  master  strays  amidst  his  grounds, 
Directs  his  negroes,  or  reviews  his  hounds ; 
Then  home  returning  plies  his  pasteboard  play, 
Or  dreams  o'er  wine,  that  hardly  makes  him  gay : 
If  some  chance  guest  arrive  in  weary  plight, 
He  more  than  bids  him  welcome  for  the  night; 
Kind  to  profusion,  spares  no  pains  to  please, 
Gives  him  the  product  of  his  fields  and  trees ; 
On  his  rich  board  shines  plenty  from  her  source, 
The  meanest  dish  of  all  —  his  own  discourse. 

Philip  Freneau. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


MY  MARYLAND. 

THE  despot's  heel  is  on  thy  shore, 
Maryland  ! 
His  torch  is  at  thy  temple  door, 

Maryland  ! 

Avenge  the  patriotic  gore 
That  necked  the  streets  of  Baltimore, 
And  be  the  battle-queen  of  yore, 
Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Hark  to  thy  wandering  son's  appeal, 

Maryland ! 
My  mother  State  !   to  thee  I  kneel, 

Maryland  ! 

For  life  and  death,  for  woe  and  weal, 
Thy  peerless  chivalry  reveal, 
And  gird  thy  beauteous  limbs  with  steel, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  cower  in  the  dust, 

Maryland ! 
Thy  beaming  sword  shall  never  rust, 

Maryland  ! 

Remember  Carroll's  sacred  trust; 
Remember  Howard's  warlike  thrust ; 
And  all  thy  slumberers  with  the  just, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Come  !   't  is  the  red  dawn  of  the  day, 
Maryland ! 


4  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Come !   with  thy  panoplied  array, 

Maryland  ! 

With  Ringgold's  spirit  for  the  fray, 
With  Watson's  blood,  at  Monterey, 
With  fearless  Lowe,  and  dashing  May, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Come !  for  thy  shield  is  bright  and  strong, 

Maryland ! 
Come !   for  thy  dalliance  does  thee  wrong, 

Maryland  ! 

Come !   to  thine  own  heroic  throng, 
That  stalks  with  Liberty  along, 
And  give  a  new  Key  to  thy  song,1 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Dear  Mother  !   burst  the  tyrant's  chain, 

Maryland ! 
Virginia  should  not  call  in  vain, 

Maryland ! 

She  meets  her  sisters  on  the  plain: 
Sic  semper,  'tis  the  proud  refrain, 
That  baffles  minions  back  amain, 

Maryland ! 
Arise  in  majesty  again, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

I  see  the  blush  upon  thy  cheek, 

Maryland  ! 
But  thou  wast  ever  bravely  meek, 

Maryland  ! 

1  "  The  Star-Spangled  Banner  "  was  written  during  the  war  of  1812  by 
Francis  Key  of  Maryland. 


INTRODUCTORY.  5 

But  lo  !   there  surges  forth  a  shriek 
From  hill  to  hill,  from  creek  to  creek,  — 
Potomac  calls  to  Chesapeake, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

Thou  wilt  not  yield  the  Vandal  toll, 

Maryland  ! 
Thou  wilt  not  crook  to  his  control, 

Maryland ! 

Better  the  fire  upon  thee  roll, 
Better  the  blade,  the  shot,  the  bowl, 
Than  crucifixion  of  the  soul, 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

I  hear  the  distant  thunder  hum, 

Maryland  ! 
The  Old  Line's  bugle,  fife  and  drum, 

Maryland  ! 

She  is  not  dead,  nor  deaf,  nor  dumb  : 
Huzza  !   she  spurns  the  Northern  scum  ! 
She  breathes, —  she  burns !  she'll  come !  she'll  come ! 

Maryland  !     My  Maryland  ! 

James  R.  Randall. 


TO  THE  VIRGINIAN  VOYAGE. 

YOU  brave  heroic  minds, 
Worthy  your  country's  name, 
That,  honor  still  pursue, 
Whilst  loitering  hinds 
Lurk  here  at  home,  with  shame. 
Go  and  subdue. 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Britons,  you  stay  too  long, 
Quickly  aboard  bestow  you, 
And  with  a  merry  gale 
Swell  your  stretched  sail, 
With  vows  as  strong 
\    As  the  winds  that  blow  you. 

Your  course  securely  steer, 

West  and  by  south  forth  keep, 
Rocks,  lee-shores,  nor  shoals, 
When  Eolus  scowls, 

You  need  not  fear, 

So  absolute  the  deep. 

And  cheerfully  at  sea, 
Success  you  still  entice, 

To  get  the  pearl  and  gold, 
And  ours  to  hold 
Virginia, 
(  Earth's  only  paradise. 

1 ^- 

Where  nature  hath  in  store 
Eowl,  venison,  and  fish, 
And  the  fruitful' st  soil, 
Without  your  toil, 
Three  harvests  more, 
\   All  greater  than  your  wish. 

And  the  ambitious  vine 
Crowns  with  his  purple  mass 

The  cedar  reaching  high 

To  kiss  the  sky, 


INTRODUCTORY. 

The  cypress,  pine, 
And  useful  sassafras. 

To  whose,  the  golden  age 
Still  nature's  laws  doth  give, 

No  other  cares  attend, 

But  them  to  defend 
From  winter's  rage, 
That  long  there  doth  not  live. 

When  as\the  luscious  smell 

Of  that  delicious  land,  I 

Above  the  seas  tnat  flows, 
The  clear  wind  throws, 

Your  hearts  to  swell 

Approaching  the  dear  strand; 

In  kenning  of  the  shore 
(Thanks  to  God  first  given) 

O  you  the  happiest  men, 

Be  frolic  then, 
Let  cannons  roar, 
Frighting  the  wide  heaven; 

And  in  regions  far 

Such  heroes  bring  ye  forth, 

As  those  from  whom  we  came, 

And  plant  our  name 
Under  that  star 
Not  known  unto  our  north ; 

And  as  there  plenty  grows 
Of  laurel  everywhere, 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Apollo's  sacred  tree, 

You  it  may  see, 
A  poet's  brows 
To  crown,  that  may  sing  there. 

Thy  voyages  attend, 
Industrious  Hackluit, 

Whose  reading  shall  inflame 

Men  to  seek  fame, 
And  much  commend 

To  after-times  thy  wit. 

Michael  Drayton. 

WASHINGTON. 

VIRGINIA  gave  us  this  imperial  man 
Cast  in  the  massive  mould 
Of  those  high-statured  ages  old 
Which  into  grander  forms  our  mortal  metal  ran; 
She  gave  us  this  unblemished  gentleman : 
What  shall  we  give  her  back  but  love  and  praise 
As  in  |he  dear  old  unestranged  days  \ 
Before  the  inevitable  wrong  beganr* 
Mother  of  States  and  undiminished  men, 
Thou  gavest  us  a  country,  giving  hinv 
And  we  owe  alway  what  we  owed  thee  then : 
The  boon  thou  woulclst  have  snatched  from  us  again 
Shines  as  before  with  no  abatement  dim. 
A  great  man's  memory  is  the  only  thing 
With  influence  to  outlast  the  present  whim 
And  bind  us  as  when  here  he  knit  our  golden  ring. 
All  of  him  that  was  subject  to  the  hours 


INTRODUCTORY.  9 

Lies  in  thy  soil  and  makes  it  part  of  ours : 
Across  more  recent  graves, 
Where  unresentful  Nature  waves 
Her  pennons  o'er  the  shot-ploughed  sod, 
Proclaiming  the  sweet  Truce  of  God, 
We  from  this  consecrated  plain  stretch  out 
Our  hands  as  free  from  afterthought  or  doubt 
As  here  the  united  North 
Poured  her  embrowned  manhood  forth 
In  welcome  of  our  savior  and  thy  son. 
Through  battle  we  have  better  learned  thy  worth, 
The  long-breathed  valor  and  undaunted  will, 
Which,  like  his  own,  the  day's  disaster  done7' 
Could,  safe  in  manhood,  suffer  and  be  still. 
Both  thine  and  ours  the  victory  hardly  won; 
If  ever  with  distempered  voice  or  pen 
We  have  misdeemed  thee,  here  we  take  it  back, 
And  for  the  dead  of  both  don  common  black. 
Be  to  us  evermore  as  thou  wast  then, 
As  we  forget  thou  hast  not  always  been, 
Mother  of  States  and  unpolluted  men, 
Virginia,  fitly  named  from  England's  manly  queen! 

James  Russell  LowelL 


SOUTH  CAEOLINA. 

OUTSIDE  my  exile's  home  I  watch  the  sway 
Of  the  bowed  pine-tops  in  the  gloaming  gray, 
Casting  across  the  melancholy  lea 

A  tint  of  browner  blight ; 
Outside  my  exile's  home,  borne  to  and  fro, 


10  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

I  hear  the  inarticulate  murmurs  flow 

Of  the  faint  wind-tides  breathing  like  a  sea; 

When,  in  clear  vision,  softly  dawns  on  me 

(As  if  in  contrast  with  yon  slow  decay) 

The  loveliest  land  that  smiles  beneath  the  sky, 

The  coast-land  of  our  Western  Italy  : 

I  view  the  waters  quivering ;    quaff  the  breeze, 

Whose  briny  raciness  keeps  an  under  taste 

Of  flavorous  tropic  sweets  (perchance  swept  home 

Across  the  flickering  waste 
Of  summer  waves,  capped  by  the  Ariel  foam) 

From  Cuba's  perfumed  groves  and  garden  spiceries ! 

Along  the  horizon-line  a  vapor  swims, 
Pale  rose  and  amethyst,  melting  into  gold ; 
Up  to  our  feet  the  fawning  ripples  rolled, 
Glimmer  an  instant,  tremble,  lapse,  and  —  die  : 
The  whole  rare  scene,  its  every  element 
Etherealized,  transmuted,  subtly  blent 

Byx  viewless  alchemy, 
Into  the  glory  of  a  golden  mood, 
Brings  potent  exaltations,  while  I  walk 

(A  joyful  youth  again) 
The  snow-white  beaches  by  the  Atlantic  Main! 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


INTRODUCTORY.  11 

GEORGIA, 
1. 

THE   VOICE    IN    THE    PINES. 

THE  morn  is  softly  beautiful  and  still, 
Its  light  fair  clouds  in  pencilled  gold  and  gray 
Pause  motionless  above  the  pine-grown  hill, 
Where  the  pines,  tranced  as  by  a  wizard's  will, 
Uprise,  as  mute  and  motionless  as  they! 

Yea  !  mute  and  moveless ;  not  one  nickering  spray 

Flashed  into  sunlight,  nor  a  gaunt  bough  stirred; 
Yet,  if  wooed  hence  beneath  those  pines  to  stray, 
We  catch  a  faint,  thin  murmur  far  away, 
A  bodiless  voice,  by  grosser  ears  unheard. 

What  voice  is  this  ?  what  low  and  solemn  tone, 
Which,    though   all    wings    of  all   the   winds   seem 
furled, 

Nor  even  the  zephyr's  fairy  flute  is  blown, 

Makes  thus  forever  its  mysterious  moan 

From  out  the  whispering  pine-tops'  shadowy  world  ? 

Ah !  can  it  be  the  antique  tales  are  true  ? 

Doth  some  lone  Dryad  haunt  the  breezeless  air, 
Fronting  yon  bright  illimitable  blue, 
And  wildly  breathing  all  her  wild  soul  through 

That  strange,  unearthly  music  of  despair? 

Or  can  it  be  that  ages  since,  storm-tossed, 
And  driven  far  inland  from  the  roaring  lea, 


12  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Some  baffled  ocean-spirit,  worn  and  lost, 
Here,  through  dry  summer's  dearth  and  winter's  frost, 
Yearns  for  the  sharp,  sweet  kisses  of  the  sea? 

Whatever  the  spell,  I  hearken  and  am  dumb, 

Dream-touched,  and  musing  in  the  tranquil  morn; 
All  woodland  sounds,  —  the  pheasant's  gusty  drum, 
The  mock-bird's  fugue,  the  droning  insect's  hum, — 
&eartx?  heard   for   that   strange,  sorrowful  voice  for 
lorn  ! 

Beneath  the  drowsed  sense,  from  deep  to  deep 

Of  spiritual  life  its  mournful  minor  flows, 
Stream-like,  with  pensive  tide,  whose  currents  keep 
Low-murmuring  'twixt  the  bounds  of  grief  and  sleep, 
Yet  looked  for  aye  from  sleep's  divine  repose. 

II. 

ASPECTS    OF   THE    PINES. 

TALL,  sombre,  grim,  against  the  morning  sky 
They  rise,  scarce  touched  by  melancholy  airs 

Winch  stir  the  fadeless  foliage  dreamfully, 
As  if  from  realms  of  mystical  despairs. 

Tall,  sombre,  grim,  they  stand  with  dusky  gleams 
Brightening  to  gold  within  the  woodland's  core, 

Beneath  the  gracious  noontide's  tranquil  beams, 
But  the  weird  winds  of  morning  sigh  no  more. 

A  stillness,  strange,  divine,  ineffable, 

Broods  round  and  o'er  them  in  the  wind's  surcease, 


INTRODUCTORY.  13 

And  on  each  tinted  copse  and  shimmering  dell 
Rests  the  mute  rapture  of  deep-hearted  peace. 

Last,  sunset  comes,  —  the  solemn  joy  and  might 
Borne  from  the  west  when  cloudless  day  declines, — 

Low,  flute-like  breezes  sweep  the  waves  of  light, 
And  lifting  dark  green  tresses  of  the  pines, 

Till  every  lock  is  luminous,  —  gently  float, 
Fraught  with  hale  odors  up  the  heavens  afar 

To  faint  when  Twilight  on  her  virginal  throat 
Wears  for  a  gem  the  tremulous  vesper  star. 


III. 

FOREST   PICTURES.  —  MORNING. 

O  GRACIOUS  brea-th  of  sunrise!  divine  air! 

That  brood'st  serenely  o'er  the  purpling  hills; 
0  blissful  valleys  !  nestling,  cool  and  fair, 

In  the  fond  arms  of  yonder  murmurous  rills, 
Breathing  their  grateful  measures  to  the  sun; 
O  dew-besprinkled  paths,  that  circling  run 
Through  sylvan  shades  and  solemn  silences, 
Once  more  ye  bring  my  fevered  spirit  peace ! 

The  fitful  breezes,  fraught  with  forest  balm, 
Faint,  in  rare  wafts  of  perfume,  on  my  brow; 

The  woven  lights  and  shadows,  rife  with  calm, 

Creep  slantwise  'twixt  the  foliage,  bough  on  bough 

Uplifted  heavenward,  like  a  verdant  cloud 

Whose  rain  is  music,  soft  as  love,  or  loud 


14  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

With  jubilant  hope,  —  for  there,  entranced,  apart, 
The  mock-bird  sings,  close,  close  to  Nature's  heart. 

Shy  forms  about  the  greenery,  out  and  in, 
Flit  'neath  the  broadening  glories  of  the  morn; 

The  squirrel — that  quaint  sylvan  harlequin  — 

Mounts    the   tall   trunks ;  while    swift   as   lightning, 
born 

Of  summer  mists,  from  tangled  vine  and  tree 

Dart  the  dove's  pinions,  pulsing  vividly 

Down  the  dense  glades,  till  glimmering  far  and  gray 

The  dusky  vision  softly  melts  away! 

In  transient,  pleased  bewilderment,  I  mark 

The  last  dim  shimmer  of  those  lessening  wings, 
When  from  lone  copse  and  shadowy  covert,  hark ! 

What  mellow  tongue  through  all  the  woodland  rings ! 
The  deer-hound's  voice,  sweet  as  the  golden  bell's, 
Prolonged  by  flying  echoes  round  the  dells, 
And  up  the  loftiest  summits  wildly  borne, 
Blent  with  the  blast  of  some  keen  huntsman's  horn. 

And  now  the  checkered  vale  is  left  behind; 

I  climb  the  slope,  and  reach  the  hill-top  bright; 
Here,  in  bold  freedom,  swells  a  sovereign  wind, 

Whose  gusty  prowess  sweeps  the  pine-clad  height; 
While  the  pines,  —  dreamy  Titans  roused  from  sleep,  — 
Answer  with  mighty  voices,  deep  on  deep 
Of  wakened  foliage  surging  like  a  sea; 
And  o'er  them  smiles  Heaven's  calm  infinity ! 

Paul  Hamilton  Rayne. 


1  Tangled  vine  and  tree.':     See  page  14. 


INTRODUCTORY.  15 


FLORIDA, 

WHERE  Pablo  to  the  broad  St.  John 
His  dark  and  briny  tribute  pays, 
The  wild  deer  leads  her  dappled  fawn, 

Of  graceful  limb  and  timid  gaze ; 
Rich  sunshine  falls  on  wave  and  land, 

The  gull  is  screaming  overhead, 
And  on  a  beach  of  whitened  sand 
Lie  wreathy  shells  with  lips  of  red. 

The  jessamine  hangs  golden  flowers 

On  ancient  oaks  in  moss  arrayed, 
And  proudly  the  palmetto  towers, 

While  mock-birds  warble  in  the  shade; 
Mounds,  built  by  mortal  hand,  are  near, 

Green  from  the  summit  to  the  base, 
Where,  buried  with  the  bow  and  spear, 

Rest  tribes,  forgetful  of  the  chase. 

Cassada,  nigh  the  ocean  shore, 

Is  now  a  ruin,  wild  and  lone, 
And  on  her  battlements  no  more 

Is  banner  waved  or  trumpet  blown; 
Those  doughty  cavaliers  are  gone 

Who  hurled  defiance  there  to  France, 
While  the  bright  waters  of  St.  John 

Reflected  flash  of  sword  and  lance. 

But  when  the  light  of  dying  day 
Falls  on  the  crumbling  wrecks  of  time, 


16  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  the  wan  features  of  decay 

Wear  softened  beauty,  like  the  clime, 

My  fancy  summons  from  the  shroud 
The  knights  of  old  Castile  again, 

And  charging  thousands  shout  aloud,  — 
"  St.  Jago  strikes  to-day  for  Spain ! " 

When  mystic  voices,  on  the  breeze 

That  fans  the  rolling  deep,  sweep  by, 
The  spirits  of  the  Yemassees, 

Who  ruled  the  land  of  yore,  seem  nigh; 
For  mournful  marks,  around  where  stood 

Their  palm-roofed  lodges,  yet  are  seen, 
And  in  the  shadows  of  the  wood 

Their  tall,  funereal  mounds  are  green. 

William  Henry  Cuyler  Ilosmer. 

"  I  WAS  A  STRANGER,  AND  YE  TOOK  ME  IN." 

'VTEATH  skies  that  winter  never  knew 
1^1      The  air  was  full  of  light  and  balm, 
And  warm  and  soft  the  Gulf  wind  blew 
Through  orange  bloom  and  groves  of  palm. 

A  stranger  from  the  frozen  North, 

Who  sought  the  fount  of  health  in  vain, 

Sank  homeless  on  the  alien  earth, 
And  breathed  the  languid  air  with  pain. 

God's  angel  came !     The  tender  shade 
Of  pity  made  her  blue  eye  dim; 

Against  her  woman's  breast  she  laid 
The  drooping,  fainting  head  of  him. 


INTRODUCTORY.  17 

She  bore  liim  to  a  pleasant  room, 
Flower-sweet  and  cool  with  salt  sea  air, 

And  watched  beside  his  bed,  for  whom 
His  far-off  sisters  might  not  care. 

She  fanned  his  feverish  brow  and  smoothed 
Its  lines  of  pain  with  tenderest  touch. 

With  holy  hymn  and  prayer  she  soothed 
The  trembling  soul  that  feared  so  much. 

Through  her  the  peace  that  passeth  sight 
Came  to  him,  as  he  lapsed  away, 

As  one  whose  troubled  dreams  of  night 
Slide  slowly  into  tranquil  day. 

The  sweetness  of  the  Land  of  Flowers 

Upon  his  lonely  grave  she  laid  : 
The  jasmine  dropped  its  golden  showers, 

The  orange  lent  its  bloom  and  shade. 

And  something  whispered  in  her  thought, 
More  sweet  than  mortal  voices  be  : 

"  The  service  thou  for  him  hast  wrought, 
O  daughter!  hath  been  done  for  me." 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 

ALABAMA. 

BUUTSED  and  bleeding,  pale  and  weary, 
Onward  to  the  South  and  West, 
Through  dark  woods  and  deserts  dreary, 

By  relentless  foemen  pressed, 
Came  a  tribe  where  evening,  darkling, 
Flushed  a  mighty  river's  breast; 


18  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  they  cried,  their  faint  eyes  sparkling, 
"  Alabama  !     Here  we  rest !  " 

By  the  stern  steam-demon  hurried, 

Far  from  home  and  scenes  so  blest; 
By  the  gloomy  care-dogs  worried, 

Sleepless,  houseless,  and  distressed, 
Days  and  nights  beheld  me  hieing 

Like  a  bird  without  a  nest, 
Till  I  hailed  thy  waters,  crying, 

"Alabama!     Here  I  rest!" 

Oh!  when  life's  last  sun  is  blinking 
In  the  pale  and  darksome  West, 

And  my  weary  frame  is  sinking, 
With  its  cares  and  woes  oppressed, 

May  I,  as  I  drop  the  burden 

From  my  sick  and  fainting  breast, 

Cry,  beside  the  swelling  Jordan, 

"  Alabama  !     Here  I  rest !  " 

Charles  Timothy  Brooks. 

LOUISIANA, 

THE    STRANGER    IN    LOUISIANA. 

"  AN  early  traveller  mentions  people  on  the  banks  of  the  Mississippi 
who  burst  into  tears  at  the  sight  of  a  stranger.  The  reason  of  this  is, 
that  they  fancy  their  deceased  friends  and  relations  to  be  only  gone  on  a 
journey,  and,  being  in  constant  expectation  of  their  return,  look  for  them 
vainly  amongst  these  foreign  travellers."  —  PICART'S  Ceremonies  and 
Religious  Customs. 

WE  saw  thee,  O  stranger!  and  wept. 
We  looked  for  the  youth  of  the  sunny  glance 
Whose  step  was  the  fleetest  in  chase  or  dance ; 


INTRODUCTORY.  19 

The  light  of  his  eye  was  a  joy  to  see, 

The  path  of  his  arrows  a  storm  to  flee. 

But  there  came  a  voice  from  a  distant  shore,  — 

He  was  called,  —  he  is  found  midst  his  tribe  no  more : 

He  is  not  in  his  place  when  the  night-fires  burn, 

But  we  look  for  him  still,  —  he  will  yet  return ! 

His  brother  sat  with  a  drooping  brow 

In  the  gloom  of  the  shadowing  cypress  bough : 

We  roused  him, — we  bade  him  no  longer  pine, 

For  we  heard  a  step,  —  but  the  step  was  thine! 

We  saw  thee,  O  stranger !  and  wept. 
We  looked  for  the  maid  of  the  mournful  song,  — 
Mournful,  though  sweet,  —  she  hath  left  us  long : 
We  told  her  the  youth  of  her  love  was  gone, 
And  she  went  forth  to  seek  him,  —  she  passed  alone. 
We  hear  not  her  voice  when  the  woods  are  still, 
From  the  bower  where  it  sang,  like  a  silvery  rill. 
The  joy  of  her  sire  with  her  smile  is  fled, 
The  winter  is  white  on  his  lonely  head  : 
He  hath  none  by  his  side  when  the  wilds  we  track, 
He  hath  none  when  we  rest,  —  yet  she  comes  not  back  ! 
We  looked  for  her  eye  on  the  feast  to  shine, 
For  her  breezy  step,  —  but  the  step  was  thine ! 

We  saw  thee,  0  stranger  !  and  wept. 
We  looked  for  the  chief,  who  hath  left  the  spear 
And  the  bow  of  his  battles  forgotten  here  : 
We  looked  for  the  hunter,  whose  bride's  lament 
On  the  wind  of  the  forest  at  eve  is  sent : 
We  looked  for  the  first-born,  whose  mother's  cry 
Sounds  wild  and  shrill  through  the  midnight  sky !  — 


20  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Where  are  they  ?  Thou  'rt  seeking  some  distant  coast : 
O,  ask  of  them,  stranger! — send  back  the  lost! 
Tell  them  we  mourn  by  the  dark-blue  streams, 
Tell  them  our  lives  but  of  them  are  dreams ! 
Tell,  how  we  sat  in  the  gloom  to  pine, 
And  to  watch  for  a  step,  —  but  the  step  was  thine ! 

Felicia  Remans. 

TEXAS. 

THE   TOICE    OF    NEW   ENGLAND. 

UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low,  — 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow,  — • 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe,  — 

It  is  coming,  —  it  is  nigh  ! 
Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by; 
On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires. 

From  Wachusett,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

Oh,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand, 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 


INTRODUCTORY.  21 

Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race,  — 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base. 

Perish  party,  —  perish  clan; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time,  — 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 

"  What  though  Issachar  be  strong  ! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  %ith  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long; 

"Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  .outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope! 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

' '  Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom  ; 

Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 

Tor  her  plough  and  forge  and  loom; 

"  Take  your  slavery -blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart ; 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart; 

"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 

"With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heaTt  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare ! 

"Onward  with  your  fell  design; 
Dig  the  gulf,  and  draw  the  line: 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine: 

"Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 


INTRODUCTORY.  26 

"And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow ;  — 

"And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise ! 

"We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand,  — 

"  Valleys  by  the  slave  uutrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God  !  " 

John  Greenleaf  Wkittier. 


SONG  OF  TEXAS. 

MAKE  room  on  our  banner  bright 
That  flaps  in  the  lifting  gale, 
For  the  orb  that  lit  the  fight 

In  Jacinto's  storied  vale. 
Througli  clouds,  all  dark  of  hue, 

It  arose  with  radiant  face ; 
Oh,  grant  to  a  sister  true, 

Ye  stars,  in  your  train  a  place ! 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  blood  of  the  Saxon  flows 

In  the  veins  of  men  who  cry,  — 
"Give  ear,  give  ear  unto  those 

Who  pine  for  their  native  sky  ! 
We  call  on  our  motherland 

For  a  home  in  Freedom's  hall,  — • 
While  stretching  forth  the  hand, 

Oh,  build  no  dividing  wall ! 

"The  Mexican  vaunteth  no  more; 

In  strife  we  have  tamed  his  pride; 
The  coward  raps  not  at  your  door, 

Speak  out !  shall  it  open  wide  ? 
Oh,  the  wish  of  our  hearts  is  strong, 

That  the  star  of  Jacinto's  fight 
Have  place  in  the  flashing  throng 

That  spangle  your  banner  bright." 

William  Henri/  Cuyler  Ilosmer. 


SOUTHERN    STATES. 

Allegliany  Mountains,   Ga. 

AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS  IN  GEORGIA, 

YE  glorious  Allcghanies  !  from  this  height 
I  sec  your  peaks  on  every  side  arise ; 
Their  summits  roll  beneath  the  giddy  sight, 
Like  ocean  billows  heaved  among  the  skies. 
In  wild  magnificence  upon  them  lies 
The  primal  forest,  kindling  in  the  glow 

Of  this  mild  autumn  sun  with  golden  dyes, 
While,  in  his  slanting  ray,  their  shadows  grow 
Broad  o'er  the  paradise  of  vale  and  wood  below. 

How  beautiful!    though,  fresh  from  Nature's  God, 
They  show  no  footstep  of  an  elder  race ; 

No  human  hand  has  ever  turned  their  sod, 

Or  heaved  their  massive  granite  from  its  place: 
The  green  banks  of  their  floods  bear  not  a  trace 

Of  pomp  and  power,  which  have  come  and  gone, 
And  left  their  crumbling  ruins  to  deface 


26  POEMS  OF    PLACES. 

The  virgin  earth.     Here  Nature  rules  alone; 
The  beauty  of  the  hill  and  valley  is  her  own. 

Nor  might  the  future  generations  know 

Aught  of  the  simple  people,  who  have  made 
Their  habitations  by  the  streams  that  flow 

So  fresli  and  stainless  from  the  forest  shade; 

Who  built  their  council  fires  on  hill  and  glade, 
And  in  yon  pleasant  valleys,  by  the  fall 

Of  crystal  founts,  perchance,  their  dead  have  laid,  — 
But  for  the  names  of  mountain,  river,  cataract, — all 
Significant  of  thought,  and  sweetly  musical. 
*  *  * 

Henry  R.  Jackson. 


Arlington,    Va. 

ARLINGTON. 

THE   tents   that   whitened    Arlington   have   vanished 
from  the. fields, 
And  plenty  where  the  cannon   stood  a  golden   harvest 

yields  ; 
The  campfires   gleam   no   more  at   night,  and  pleasant 

mornings  come, 
Without  the  blare  of  bugles  or  the  beating  of  the  drum. 

The  rushes  by  the   riverside  thrill  with  the  reed-birds' 

song, 
And  bend  to  kiss  the  ripples  as  the  waters  flow  along ; 


ARLINGTON.  27 

The  robins  stray  beneath  the  oaks,  the  partridge  calls 
its  brood, 

And  whistles  down  the  valleys  with  a  confidence  re 
newed. 

All  through  the  widening  rifle-pits  the  grass  is  growing 

green, 
And  autumn  wild-flowers  blossom  where   the  bivouacs 

have  been ; 
The   days   seem   like   a   sunny  dream,    and   night   falls 

gently  down 
In  silence,  broken  only  by  the  murmur  from  the  town. 

But  though  the  camps  have  vanished  and  the  tents  are 

laid  away, 

An  army  waits  upon  the  knolls  in  undisturbed  array,  — 
A  legion  without  banners,  that  knows  no  music  save 
The  wailing  of  the   dead-march  and  a  volley  o'er  the 

grave. 

Here   comrades   that  together   strove,  with  all  of  life 

at  stake, 
Lie   side   by  side,  in   slumber   that   no    bugle-call   can 

break ; 
No  shock  can  ever  break  their  ranks,  no   blast  their 

columns  thin, 
Nor  one   deserter  leave    the    corps   their   grim   Chief 

musters  in. 

Spring  twines  its    garlands    o'er  their   heads,  but  they 

never  cull  its  flowers, 
And  peaceful  winter  evenings  bring  to  them  no  happy 

hours. 


28  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Tears  fall  at  home ;  they  heed  them  not,  and  care  no 

more  to  earn 
The  love  that  waited  patiently  to  welcome  their  return. 

Alas !  what  dreams  of  life  and  love  have  ended  in  these 

grounds ! 
How  many  hopes    are    buried  in  these  little  grassy 

mounds ! 
How  many  hearts  have  felt  the  pang  the  lips  could 

never  tell, 
And  broken,  striving  to  believe  "He  doeth  all  things 

well!" 

'T  is  sweet  to  think  the  war  is  o'er ;  that  all  its  bitter 

pain 
Was  measured  for  our  chastening  and  not  endured  in 

vain ; 

And  dearer  still  it  is  to  know  that  in  the  coming  years 
A  nation's   happiness  will  bless    our  offerings   and  our 

tears. 

*  *  * 

S.  M.  Carpenter. 


Ashley,  the  River,  S.  C. 

MAGNOLIA  GARDEN. 

YES,  found  at  last,  —  the  earthly  Paradise  ! 
Here  by  slow  currents  of  the  silvery  stream. 
It  smiles,  a  shining  wonder,  a  fair  dream, 
A  matchless  miracle  to  mortal  eyes : 


ATCHAFALAYA,    THE    LAKES.  29 

What  whorls  of  dazzling  color  flash  and  rise 

From  rich  azalean  flowers,  whose  petals  teem 

With  such  harmonious  tints  as  brightly  gleam 

In  sunset  rainbows  arched  o'er  perfect  skies  ! 

But  see  !  beyond  those  blended  blooms  of  fire, 

Vast  tier  on  tier,  the  lordly  foliage  tower 

Which  crowns  the  centuried  oaks'  broad-crested  calm  : 

Thus  on  bold  Beauty  falls  the  shade  of  Power; 

Yet  Beauty,  still  unquelled,  fulfils  desire, 

Unfolds  her  blossoms,  and  outbreathes  her  balm  ! 

Paul  Hamilton  Ilayne. 


Atchafalaya,  the  Lakes,  La. 

ATCHAFALAYA. 

BEFORE  them 

Lay,  in  the  golden  sun,  the  lakes  of  the  Atchafalaya. 
Water-lilies  in  myriads  rocked  on  the  slight  undulations 
Made  by  the  passing  oars,  and,  resplendent  in  beauty, 

the  lotus 

Lifted  her  golden  crown  above  the  heads  of  the  boatmen. 
Faint  was  the  air  with  the  odorous  breath  of  magnolia 

blossoms, 
And  with  the   heat   of  noon;   and   numberless   sylvan 

islands, 
Fragrant     and    thickly    embowered    with     blossoming 

hedges  of  roses, 
Near  to  whose   shores  they  glided  along,   invited  to 

slumber. 


30  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Soon  by  the  fairest  of  these  tlieir  weary  oars  were  sus 
pended. 

Under  the  boughs  of  Wachita  willows,  that  grew  by  the 
margin, 

Safely  their  boat  was  moored;  and  scattered  about  on 
the  greensward, 

Tired  with  their  midnight  toil,  the  weary  travellers 
slumbered. 

Over  them  vast  and  high  extended  the  cope  of  a  cedar. 

Swinging  from  its  great  arms,  the  trumpet-flower  and 
the  grapevine 

Hung  their  ladder  of  ropes  aloft  like  the  ladder  of  Jacob, 

On  whose  pendulous  stairs  the  angels  ascending,  de 
scending, 

Were  the  swift  humming-birds,  that  flitted  from  blossom 
to  blossom. 

Such  was  the  vision  Evangeline  saw  as  she  slumbered 
beneath  it. 

Filled  was  her  heart  with  love,  and  the  dawn  of  an  open 
ing  heaven 

Lighted  her  soul  in  sleep  with  the  glory  of  regions 
celestial. 

Nearer,  ever  nearer,  among  the  numberless  islands, 
Darted  a  light,  swift  boat,  that  sped  away  o'er  the  water, 
Urged  on  its  course  by  the  sinewy  arms  of  hunters  and 

trappers. 
Northward  its  prow  was  turned,  to  the  land  of  the  bison 

and  beaver. 
At  the  helm  sat  a  youth,  with  countenance  thoughtful 

and  careworn. 


ATCHAFALAYA,    THE    LAKES.  31 

Dark  and  neglected  locks  overshadowed  liis  brow,  and 

a  sadness 
Somewhat   beyond   his  years    on  his   face   was   legibly 

written. 
Gabriel  was  it,  who,  weary  with  waiting,  unhappy  and 

restless, 
Sought  in  the  Western  wilds  oblivion   of  self  and  of 

sorrow. 
Swiftly  they  glided  along,  close  under  the  lee  of  the 

island, 

But   by  the  opposite  bank,  and  behind  a  screen  of  pal 
mettos, 
So  that  they  saw  not  the  boat,  where  it  lay  concealed 

in  the  willows, 
All  undisturbed  by  the  dash  of  their  oars,  and  unseen, 

were  the  sleepers, 

Angel  of  God  was  there  none  to  awaken  the  slumber 
ing  maiden. 
Swiftly  they  glided  away,  like  the  shade  of  a  cloud  on 

the  prairie. 
After  the  sound  of  their  oars  on  the  tholes  had  died  in 

the  distance, 
As  from   a   magic  trance  the  sleepers   awoke,  and  the 

maiden 
Said  witli  a  sigh  to  the  friendly  priest,  "  0  Father  Feli- 

cian  ! 
Something   says  in  my  heart    that    near    me   Gabriel 

wanders. 

Is  it  a  foolish  dream,  an  idle  and  vague  superstition  ? 
Or  has  an  angel  passed,  and  revealed  the  truth  to  my 

spirit  ?  " 


32  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Then,  with  a  blush,  she  Idded,  "  Alas  for  my  credulous 

fancy ! 

Unto  ears  like  thine  such  words  as  these  have  no  mean 
ing.3' 
But  made  answer  the  reverend  man,  and  he  smiled  as 

he  answered,  — 
"Daughter,  thy  words  are  not  idle;   nor  are  they  to    . 

me  without  meaning. 
Feeling  is  deep  and  still ;   and  the  word  that  floats  on 

the  surface 
Is  as  the  tossing  buoy,  that  betrays  where  the  anchor 

is  hidden. 
Therefore   trust  to   thy  heart,  and  to  what  the  world 

calls  illusions. 
Gabriel  truly  is   near   thee;    for   not   far    away   to  the 

southward, 
On  the  banks  of  the  Teche,  are  the  towns  of  St.  Maur 

and  St.  Martin. 
There  the  long-wandering  bride  shall  be  given  again  to 

her  bridegroom, 
There  the  long-absent  pastor  regain  his  flock  and  his 

sheepfold. 
Beautiful  is  the   land,  with  its   prairies  and  forests   of 

fruit-trees ; 
Under  the  feet  a  garden  of  flowers,  and  the  bluest  of 

heavens 
Bending  above,  and  resting  its   dome  on  the  walls  of 

the  forest. 

They  who  dwell  there  have  named  it  the  Eden  of  Lou 
isiana." 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


BALTIMORE.  33 


Baltimore,  Md. 

THE  STAR-SPANGLED  BANNER. 

WRITTEN  while  the  author  was  a  prisoner  on  board  the  British  fleet, 
011  the  morning  after  the  unsuccessful  bombardment  of  Fort  McHenry. 

OH,  say,  can  you  see,  by  the  dawn's  early  light, 
What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last 

gleaming ; 
Whose   broad    stripes   and    bright   stars,    through  the 

perilous  fight, 
O'er  the   ramparts   we   watched,   were   so   gallantly 

streaming  ? 

And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 
Gave  proof   through   the  night  that   our  nag  was  still 

there ; 

Oh,  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  the  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze  o'er  the  towering  steep 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  half  conceals,  half  discloses? 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam ; 

Its  full  glory  reflected  now  shines  on  the  stream  ; 

'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner,  oh !  long  may  it  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

And  where  is  the  band  who  so  vauutingly  swore, 
Mid  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion, 


34  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  home  and  a  country  they  'd  leave  us  no  more? 
Their  blood   hath  washed   out  their  foul  footsteps' 

pollution ; 

No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 
From  the  terror  of  flight,  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave, 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Oh  !  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  home  and  the  Avar's  desolation; 
Blessed  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  Heaven-rescued 

land 
Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made   and  preserved  us 

a  nation. 

Then  conquer  we  must,  for  our  cause  it  is  just, 
And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  God  is  our  trust," 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Frauds  Scott  Key. 


Bayou  Plaquemine,  La. 

BAYOU  PLAQUEMINE. 

ONWARD   o'er  sunken   sands,  through  a  wilderness 
sombre  with  forests, 

Day  after  day  they  glided  adown  the  turbulent  river; 
Night  after  night,  by  their  blazing  fires,  encamped  on 
its  borders. 


BAYOU    PLAQUEMINE.  35 

Now  through  rushing  chutes,  among  green  islands, 
where  plumclike 

Cotton-trees  nodded  their  shadowy  crests,  they  swept 
with  the  current, 

Then  emerged  into  broad  lagoons,  where  silvery  sand 
bars 

Lay  in  the  stream,  and  along  the  wimpling  waves  of 
their  margin, 

Shining  with  snow-white  plumes,  large  flocks  of  peli 
cans  waded. 

Level  the  landscape  grew,  and  along  the  shores  of  the 
river, 

Shaded  by  china-trees,  in  the  midst  of  luxuriant  gardens, 

Stood  the  houses  of  planters,  with  negro-cabins  and 
dove-cots. 

They  were  approaching  the  region  where  reigns  per 
petual  summer, 

Where  through  the  Golden  Coast,  and  groves  of  orange 
and  citron, 

Sweeps  with  majestic  curve  the  river  away  to  the  east 
ward. 

They,  too,  swerved  from  their  course ;  and,  entering  the 
Bayou  of  Plaquemine, 

Soon  were  lost  in  a  maze  of  sluggish  and  devious  waters, 

Which,  like  a  network  of  steel,  extended  in  every 
direction. 

Over  their  heads  the  towering  and  tenebrous  boughs 
of  the  cypress 

Met  in  a  dusky  arch,  and  trailing  mosses  in  mid-air 

Waved  like  banners  that  hang  on  the  walls  of  ancient 
cathedrals. 


36  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Deathlike   the   silence   seemed,  and  unbroken,  save  by 

the  herons 
Home  to  their   roosts   in  the   cedar-trees   returning  at 

sunset, 
Or  by  the  owl,  as  he  greeted  the  moon  with  demoniac 

laughter. 
Lovely  the   moonlight  was  as  it  glanced  and  gleamed 

on  the  water, 
Gleamed  on  the  columns  of  cypress  and  cedar  sustaining 

the  arches, 
Down  through  whose  broken  vaults  it  fell  as  through 

chinks  in  a  ruin. 

*  *  * 

Then  in  his  place,  at  the  prow  of  the  boat,  rose  one 

of  the  oarsmen, 

And,  as  a  signal  sound,  if  others  like  them  peradventure 
Sailed  on  those   gloomy  and  midnight  streams,  blew  a 

blast  on  his  bugle. 
Wide  through  the  dark  colonnades  and  corridors  leafy 

the  blast  rang, 
Breaking  the  seal  of  silence,  and  giving  tongues  to  the 

forest. 
Soundless  above  them  the  banners  of  moss  just  stirred 

to  the  music. 

Multitudinous  echoes  awoke  and  died  in  the  distance, 
Over  the   watery   floor,   and   beneath   the    reverberant 

branches ; 

But  not  a  voice  replied ;   no  answer  came  from  the  dark 
ness  ; 
And,  when  the  echoes  had  ceased,  like  a  sense  of  pain 

was  the  silence. 


BEAUFORT.  3? 

Then  Evangeline  slept ;  but  the  boatmen  rowed  through 

the  midnight, 

Silent  at  times,  then  singing  familiar   Canadian  boat- 
songs, 

Such  as  they  sang  of  old  on  their  own  Acadian  rivers, 
While  through  the   night  were    heard  the   mysterious 

sounds  of  the  desert, 

Far  off,  —  indistinct,  —  as  of  wave  or  wind  in  the  forest, 
Mixed  with  the  whoop  of  the  crane  and  the  roar  of  the 
grim  alligator. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


Beaufort,  S.   C. 

THE  FISHERMAN  OF  BEAUFORT. 

THE  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 
And  still  the  fisherman's  boat, 
At  early  dawn  and  at  evening  shade, 

Is  ever  and  ever  afloat: 
His  net  goes  down,  and  his  net  comes  up, 

And  we  hear  his  song  of  glee ; 
"De  fishes  dey  hates  de  ole  slave  nets, 
But  comes  to  de  nets  ob  de  free." 

The  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

And  the  oysterman  below 
Is  picking  away,  in  the  slimy  sands, 

In  the  sands  "ob  de  long  ago." 


38  POEMS  or  PLACES.  / 

But  now  if  an  empty  hand  lie  bears, 

He  shudders  no  more  with  fear; 
There  's  no  stretching-board  for  the  aching  bones, 

And  no  lash  of  the  overseer. 

The  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

And  ever  I  hear  a  song, 
As  the  moaning  winds  through  the  moss-hung  oaks 

Sweep  surging  ever  along. 
"0  massa  white  man!  help  de  slave, 

And  de  wife  and  chillen  too; 
Eber  dey  '11  work,  wid  de  hard  worn  hand, 

Ef  ell  gib  'em  de  work  to  do." 

The  tide  comes  up,  and  the  tide  goes  down, 

But  it  bides  no  tyrant's  word, 
As  it  chants  unceasing  the  anthem  grand 

Of  its  Freedom  to  the  Lord. 
The  fisherman  floating  on  its  breast 

Has  caught  up  the  keynote  true  : 
"De  sea  works,  massa,  for  't  sef  and  God, 

And  so  must  de  brack  man  too. 

"Den  gib  him  de  work,  and  gib  him  de  pay, 

For  de  chillen  an'  wife  him  love, 
And  de  yam  shall  grow,  and  de  cotton  shall  blow, 

And  him  nebber,  nebber  rove ; 
For  him  love  de  ole  Carlina  State, 

And  de  ole  magnolia  tree  ; 
Oh,  nebber  him  trouble  de  icy  Norf, 

Ef  de  brack  folks  am  go  free." 

Frances  D.  Gage. 


BETHEL.  39 

Bethel,    Va. 

BETHEL, 

TTTE  mustered  at  midnight,  in  darkness  we  formed, 
*  V    And   the    whisper  went   round    of  a  fort   to    be 

stormed ; 

But  no  drum -beat  had  called  us,  no  trumpet  we  heard, 
And   no    voice    of   command,   but    our    Colonel's    low 
word,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  ! " 

And  out,  through  the  mist  and  the  murk  of  the  morn, 
From  the  beaches  of  Hampton  our  barges  were  borne ; 
And  we  heard  not  a  sound,  save  the  sweep  of  the 

oar, 

Till  the  word  of  our  Colonel  came  up  from  the  shore,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

With  hearts  bounding  bravely,  and  eyes  all  alight, 

As  ye  dance  to  soft  music,  so  trod  we  that  night; 

Through  the  aisles  of  the  greenwood,  with  vines  over 
arched, 

Tossing  dew-drops,  like   gems,  from    our    feet,   as    we 
marched,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

As  ye  dance  with  the  damsels,  to  viol  and  flute, 
So  we   skipped  from   the   shadows,  and   mocked  their 
pursuit ; 


40  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  the   soft  zephyrs    chased   us,  with    scents   of  the 

morn, 
As    we   passed   by   the    hay-fields    and    green  waving 

corn, — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

Tor  the  leaves  were  all  laden  with  fragrance  of  June, 
And  the  flowers    and  the  foliage  with  sweets  were  in 

tune  ; 

And  the  air  was  so  calm,  and  the  forest  so  dumb, 
That  we  heard   our  own  heart-beats,   like  taps    of  a 

drum,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

Till  the  lull  of  the  lowlands  was  stirred  by  a  breeze, 
And   the   buskins   of  Morn   brushed   the    tops  of  the 

trees, 

And  the  glintings  of  glory  that  slid  from  her  track 
By  the  sheen  of  our  rifles  were  gayly  flung  back, — 

"Column!     Forward!" 

And  the  woodlands  grew  purple  with  sunshiny  mist, 

And    the    blue-crested    hill-tops    with    rose-light  were 
kissed, 

And  the  earth  gave   her  prayers   to   the   sun   in  per 
fumes, 

Till  we  marched  as  through  gardens,  and  trampled  on 
blooms,  — 

"Column!     Forward!" 

Ay  !  trampled  on  blossoms,  and  seared  the  sweet  breath 
Of  the  greenwood  with  low-brooding  vapors  of  death; 


BETHEL.  41 

O'er  the  flowers   and  the   com  we  were  borne  like  a 

blast, 
And  away  to  the  fore-front  of  battle  we  passed,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

Tor  the  cannon's  hoarse  thunder  roared  out  from  the 

glades, 

And  the  sun  was  like  lightning  on  banners  and  blades, 
When  the  long  line  of  chanting  Zouaves,  like  a  flood, 
From  the  green  of  the  woodlands  rolled,  crimson  as 

blood,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

While  the  sound  of  their  song,  like  the  surge   of  the 

seas, 
With  the  "  Star-Spangled  Banner "  swelled  over  the 

leas ; 

And  the  sword  of  Duryea,  like  a  torch,  led  the  way, 
Bearing  down  on  the  batteries  of  Bethel  that  day, — • 

"  Column  !     Forward  !  " 

Through  green-tasselled   cornfields    our   columns   were 

thrown, 
And   like   corn   by    the   red    scythe   of  fire    we    were 

mown ; 
While  the  cannon's  fierce  ploughings  new-furrowed  the 

plain, 
That  our  blood  might  be  planted  for  Liberty's  grain,  — 

"  Column  !     Forward  ! " 
*  *  * 

Augustine  Joseph  Ilickey  Duganne. 


42  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Blue  Ridge,  Va. 

A  GHOUP  OF  SONNETS. 


HERE  let  me  pause  by  the  lone  eagle's  nest, 
And  breathe  the  golden  sunlight  and  sweet  air, 
Which  gird  and  gladden  all  this  region  fair 
With  a  perpetual  benison  of  rest; 
Like  a  grand  purpose  that  some  god  hath  blest, 
The  immemorial  mountain  seems  to  rise, 
Yearning  to  overtop  diviner  skies, 
Though  monarch  of  the  pomps  of  East  and  West; 
And  pondering  here,  the  Genius  of  the  height 
Quickens  my  soul  as  if  an  angel  spake, 
And  I  can  feel  old  chains  of  custom  break, 
And  old  ambitions  start  to  win  the  light; 
A  calm  resolve  born  with  them,  in  whose  might 
I  thank  thee,  Heaven  !  that  noble  thoughts  awake. 


II. 

THE  rainbows  of  the  heaven  are  not  more  rare, 
More  various  and  more  beautiful  to  view, 
Than  these  rich  forest  rainbows,  dipped  in  dew 
Of  morn  and  evening,  glimmering  everywhere 
Erom  wooded  dell  to  dark  blue  mountain  mere; 
O  Autumn!  marvellous  painter!  every  hue 
Of  thy  immortal  pencil  is  steeped  through 


BLUE   RIDGE.  43 

With  essence  of  divinity;  how  bare 
Beside  thy  coloring  the  poor  shows  of  Art, 
Though  Art  were  thrice  inspired ;  in  dreams  alone 
(The  loftiest  dreams  wherein  the  soul  takes  part) 
Of  jasper  pavements,  and  the  sapphire  throne 
Of  Heaven,  hath  such  unearthly  brightness  shone 
To  flush,  and  thrill  the  visionary  heart ! 


ill. 

HERE,  friend !  upon  this  lofty  ledge  sit  down, 
And  view  the  beauteous  prospect  spread  below, 
Around,  above  us  ;  in  the  noonday  glow 
How  calm  the  landscape  rests  !  —  yon  distant  town, 
Enwreathed  with  clouds  of  foliage  like  a  crown 
Of  rustic  honor;  the  soft,  silvery  flow 
Of  the  clear  stream  beyond  it,  and  the  show 
Of  endless  wooded  heights,  circling  the  brown 
Autumnal  fields,  alive  with  billowy  grain ;  — 
Say,  hast  thou  ever  gazed  on  aught  more  fair 
In  Europe,  or  the  Orient  ?  • —  what  domain 
(Erom  India  to  the  sunny  slopes  of  Spain) 
Hath  beauty,  wed  to  grandeur  in  the  air, 
Blessed   with   an   ampler  charm,  a  more  benignant 
reign  ? 

Paul  Hamilton  IJayne, 


44  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


A  BIT  OF  AUTUMN  COLOR. 

/CENTRED  upon  a  sloping  crest,  I  gazed 
vJ  As  one  enchanted.     The  horizon's  ring 
Of  billowy  mountains  flushed  with  sunsetting, 
Islanded  me  about,  and  held  me  mazed, 
With  beauty  saturate.     Never  color  blazed 
On  any  mortal  palette  that  could  fling 
Such  golden  glamour  over  everything, 
As  flashed  from  Autumn's  prism,  till  all  was  hazed 
With  opal,  amber,  emerald,  amethyst, 
That  shimmered,  mingled,  dusked  to  steely  blue. 
Raptured,  I  mused:  "  Salvator  never  drew 
A  brush  so  loaded:  Turner's  genius  missed 
Such  culmination:  yet  we  count  them  true 
Masters.     Behold  what  God's  one  touch  can  do  ! " 
Margaret  Junkin  Preston. 


Brandon,  Va. 

THE  WINDOW-PANES  AT  BRANDON. 

UPON  the  window-panes  at  Brandon,  on  James  River,  are  inscribed 
the  names,  cut  with  a  diamond,  of  many  of  those  who  have  composed  the 
Christmas  and  May  parties  of  that  hospitable  mansion  in  years  gone  by. 

AS  within  the   old  mansion  the  holiday  throng  re 
assembles  in  beauty  and  grace, 

And  some  eye  looking  out  of  the  window,  by  chance, 
these  memorial  records  may  trace,  — 


BRANDON.  45 

How  tlie  past,  like  a  swift-coming  haze  from  the  sea, 
in  an  instant,  surrounds  us  once  more, 

While  the  shadowy  figures  of  those  we  have  loved,  all 
distinctly  are  seen  on  the  shore ! 

Through  the  vista  of  years,  stretching  dimly  away,  we 

but  look,  and  a  vision  behold,  — 
Like  some  magical  picture  the  sunset  reveals  with  its 

colors  of  crimson  and  gold, — 
All  suffused  with  the  glow  of  the  hearth's  ruddy  blaze, 

from  beneath  the  gay  mistletoe  bough, 
There  are  faces  that  break  into  smiles  as   divinely  as 

any  that  beam  on  us  now. 

While  the  Old  Year  departing  strides  ghost-like  along 

o'er  the  hills  that  are  dark  with  the  storm, 
To  the  New  the  brave  beaker  is  filled  to  the  brim,  and 

the  play  of  affection  is  warm: 
Look  once  more, — as  the  garlanded  Spring  reappears, 

in  her  footsteps  we  welcome  a  train 
Of  fair  women,  whose  eyes  are  as  bright  as  the  gem 

that  has  cut  their  dear  names  on  the  pane. 

From  the  canvas  of  Vandyke  and  Kneller  that  hangs 

on  the  old-fasliioned  wainscoted  wall, 
Stately  ladies,  the  favored  of  poets,  look  down  on  the 

guests  and  the  revel  and  all; 
But  their  beauty,  though  wedded  to  eloquent  verse,  and 

though  rendered  immortal  by  Art, 
Yet  outshines  not  the  beauty  that  breathing  below,  iu 

a  moment  takes  captive  the  heart. 


46  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Many  winters  have  since  frosted  over  these  panes  with 

the  tracery-work  of  the  rime, 
Many  Aprils  have  brought  back  the  birds  to  the  lawn 

from  some  far-away  tropical  clime,  — 
But  the  guests  of  the  season,  alas  !    where   are  they  ? 

Some  the  shores  of  the  stranger  have  trod, 
And  some  names  have  been   long   ago  carved  on  the 

stone,  where  they  sweetly  rest  under  the  sod. 

How  uncertain  the  record!  the  hand  of  a  child,  in  its 

innocent  sport,  unawares, 
May,  at  any  time,  lucklessly  shatter  the  pane,  and  thus 

cancel  the  story  it  bears : 
Still  a  portion,  at  least,  shall  uninjured  remain,  —  unto 

trustier  tablets  consigned, — 
The  fond  names  that  survive  in  the  memory  of  friends 

who  yet  linger  a  season  behind. 

Recollect,    0  young  soul,   with  ambition  inspired !  — 

let  the  moral  be  read  as  we  pass,  — 
Recollect  the  illusory  tablets  of  fame  have  been  ever  as 

brittle  as  glass  : 
Oh,  then,  be  not  content  with  the  name  there  inscribed, — 

for  as  well  may  you  trace  it  in  dust,  — 
But  resolve  to  record  it  where  long  it  shall  stand,  in 

the  hearts  of  the  good  and  the  just ! 
*  *  * 

John  R.  Thompson. 


CATAWBA,    THE    KIVEB.  47 


Catawba,  the  River,  N.  C. 

THE  CATAWBA  RIVER. 

/BROWNING  the  distance  pure,  the  mountains  lie, 
VJ  Now  full  of  glory  in  the  rising  morn : 
En  these  cool  summits  basking  in  the  sky 
Like  shining  clouds,  O  river !  thou  art  born ; 
And  frost  is  busy  in  the  dell 
From  which  thy  feeble  waters  well. 

But  let  me  roll  away  this  winter  dress, 

And  hush  the  madness  of  the  driving  air, 
And  show  thee  in  thy  summer  loveliness, 
When  happy  breezes  rove  about  thee  there; 
For  Fancy  shivers  —  now  to  seek 
Thy  birthplace  in  the  snow-clad  peak. 

A  rocky  palace  in  eternal  shade, 

All  wildly  roofed  with  tufts  of  brightest  green, 
With  sweetest  moss,  and  gleaming  flowers  inlaid,  — 
Its  grim  and  native  terror  all  unseen,  — 
Rises,  within  the  forest,  high ; 
A  veil  of  leaves  its  only  sky. 

And  at  its  foot  still  tenderer  is  the  moss : 

The  flowers  creep  down  in  huddling  ranks  around, 
And  fairy  odors  all  about  they  toss ; 

Cradling  in  beauty  thus  that  faintest  sound 
Thy  gurgling  voice  all  softly  makes, 
When  first  the  darkness  it  forsakes. 


48  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Oh,  in  that  nest  woven  with  gentle  hues 

Thy  trembling  life  all  feebly  is  begun;  — 
Child  of  the  sunny  showers  and  nightly  dews ! 
Prom  such  a  home  thy  devious  race  thou'lt  run: 
Like  all  things  else  upon  the  earth, 
The  purest  at  thy  place  of  birth. 

*  *  * 

And  soon  thou  art  a  lovely  brook,  revealing 
Within  thy  broader  depths  a  leafy  bower; 
With  over  thee  the  matchless  odors  stealing 
From  damask  and  the  gold  azalea's  flower; 
While  white  and  purple  lilies  seem 
Over  their  images  to  dream. 

The  silent  deer  about  thee  come  to  drink, 

Where'er  the  mossy  sward  slopes  from  the  hills-. 
And  through  the  steeper  banks  thy  waters  sink, 
To  embrace  in  gloom  the  tributary  rills 
That  die  for  joy  to  reach  the  home 
Whither  they  've  spent  their  life  to  come. 

In  thy  rich  fringe  that  casts  unbroken  shade 

The  breeze  is  lost,  and  cannot  come  to  play 
On  thy  pure  bosom  whither  it  had  strayed; 
And  mid  the  rustling  reeds  it  sighs  away: 

But  thou,  beneath  that  sadder  voice, 
•  Makest  thine  own  the  more  rejoice. 

From  this  thy  darkest,  calmest  home  of  all, 
At  length  thou  leapest  to  the  open  sight, 

Still  where  the  shadows  of  the  mountains  fall : 
Athwart  whose  sombre  sides,  like  fluttering  light, 


CATAWBA,    THE    RIVER.  49 

The  crimson  birds,  and  birds  of  blue, 
Do  glance  the  solemn  verdure  through. 

Tis  there  thou  seest  first  the  azure  sky, — 

A  greater  grandeur  than  aught  yet  to  thee  : 
There  first  thon  lookest  to  the  mountains  high,— 
The  gorgeous  land  of  thy  sweet  infancy  : 
Yet  nothing  loath  to  move  along ; 
In  thy  new  freedom  proud  and  strong. 

And,  curving  round  the  brown  and  rocky  steeps, 

Thou  hurriest  to  the  sweetly  opening  dale  ; 
There  first  above  thee,  too,  the  willow  weeps, 
And  there  thy  wavelets  rise  to  greet  the  gale, 
And  thither,  to  some  grassy  cove, 
The  sturdy  water-birds  will  rove. 

Through  fruitful  valleys  next  thou  wilt  resound; 

There  all  about  thee  fair  plantations  sleep, 
Pent  in  by  sober  forests  all  around, 

Alive  with  feeding  herds  and  snowy  sheep ; 
And  living  voices  cheerly  ring 
To  thee  a  human  welcoming. 

Such  art  thou  here,  —  now  quiet  in  the  woods, 

And  now  in  rapids  roaring  to  the  fields  ; 
Now  curling  round  the  rocks  in  hissing  floods, 
And  now  the  lowland  smoother  passage  yields : 
A  river  proud  and  turbulent, 
In  many  a  curve  and  angle  bent. 

*  *  * 

And  on  for  many  a  mile,  such  art  thou  still; 
Only  with  sister  rivers  greater  grown : 


50  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Urging  thy  passage  with  unerring  skill, 
To  make  the  home  of  waters,  too,  thine  own ; 
And  ever  with  a  rapture  tost, 
To  be  in  its  deep  bosom  lost. 

Thy  course  is  calmer  far  in  yonder  land  — 

Where  dismal  woods  and  dark  morasses  be ; 
Where  not  a  pebble  rolls  upon  thy  strand, 
And  earth  is  level  as  the  waveless  sea; 
Where  hangs  the  graceful  jessamine 
In  wreaths  of  gold,  the  woods  within. 

There,  in  the  gloomy  swamps  the  black  pools  lie, 

Studded  with  ranks  of  feathery  cypress-trees; 
Which  thither  wading  from  the  cheerful  sky, 
And  from  the  uneasy  presence  of  the  breeze, 
Seem  pillars  to  the  halls  of  Death; 
Where  never  stirs  a  living  breath. 

And  in  the  shining  pond  each  cone-like  base 
Seems  resting  on  its  image  from  below;  — 
The  slim  trunks  shooting  toward  heaven's  brighter  face, 
Whose  other  selves  down  into  darkness  go  : 
And  all  is,  like  a  picture,  still ;  — 
Fixed  thus,  beneath  the  Master's  will. 

There,  too,  the  forest  roof  is  hung  in  gray, 

The  dusky  emblem  of  a  mourning  land ; 
With  long  moss  trailing  down  from  every  spray;  — 
Like  funeral  weeds  sent  from  the  Maker's  hand 
To  mark  the  terror  of  the  place, 
And  warn  our  all  too  venturous  race. 


CHANCELLORSVILLE.  51 

Through  such  a  land,  0  river !  dost  thou  roll, 
The  ocean's  sandy  shores  at  length  to  lave : 
Thy  arrowy  force,  beneath  the  vast  control 
Put  back  subdued,  subsides  into  its  grave. 
There  wilt  thou  take  unquiet  rest, 
Diffused  throughout  thy  mother's  breast. 
*  *  * 

John  Steinfort  Kidney. 


Chancellor  sville,  Va. 

•  * 

THE  WOOD  OF  CHANCELLORSVILLE. 

THE  ripe  red  berries  of  the  wintergreen 
Lure  me  to  pause  awhile 
In  this  deep,  tangled  wood.     I  stop  and  lean 
Down  where  these  wild-flowers  smile, 
And  rest  me  in  this  shade ;  for  many  a  mile, 
Through  lane  and  dusty  street, 
I've  walked  with  weary,  weary  feet, 
And  now  I  tarry  mid  this  woodland  scene, 
'Mong  ferns  and  mosses  sweet. 

Here  all  around  me  blows 

The  pale  primrose. 

I  wonder  if  the  gentle  blossom  knows 

The  feeling  at  my  heart,  —  the  solemn  grief, 

So  whelming  and  so  deep 
That  it  disdains  relief, 

And  will  not  let  me  weep. 


62  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

I  wonder  that  the  woodbine  thrives  and  grows, 
And  is  indifferent  to  the  nation's  woes. 
For  while  these  mornings  shine,  these  blossoms  bloom, 
Impious  rebellion  wraps  the  land  in  gloom. 

Nature,  thou  art  unkind,, 

Unsympathiziiig,  blind  ! 

Yon  lichen,  clinging  to  the  o'erhanging  rock, 

Is  happy,  and  each  blade  of  grass 

O'er  which  unconsciously  I  pass 
Smiles  in  my  face,  and  seems  to  mock 

Me  with  its  joy.     Alas !  I  cannot  find 

One  chferra  in  bounteous  Nature,  while  the  wind 
That  blows  upon  my  cheek  bears  on  each  gust 
The  groans  of  my  poor  country,  bleeding  in  the  dust. 

The  air  is  musical  with  notes 

That  gush  from  winged  warblers'  throats, 

And  in  the  leafy  trees 

I  hear  the  drowsy  hum  of  bees. 

Prone  from  the  blinding  sky 
Dance  rainbow-tinted  sunbeams,  thick  with  motes; 

Daisies  are  shining,  and  the  butterfly 
Wavers  from  flower  to  flower;  —  yet  in  this  wood 
The  ruthless  foeman  stood, 
And  every  turf  is  drenched  with  human  blood ! 
*  '  *  * 

Delia  R.  German. 


CHARLESTON.  53 

Charleston,  S.  C. 

CHARLESTON. 


as  that  second  summer  which  precedes 
\J     The  first  fall  of  the  snow, 
In  the  broad  sunlight  of  heroic  deeds, 
The  city  bides  the  foe. 

As  yet,  behind  their  ramparts,  stern  and  proud, 

Her  bolted  thunders  sleep,  — 
Dark  Sumter,  like  a  battlemented  cloud, 

Looms  o'er  the  solemn  deep. 

No  Calpe  frowns  from  lofty  cliff  or  scaur 

To  guard  the  holy  strand; 
But  Moultrie  holds  in  leash  her  dogs  of  war, 

Above  the  level  sand. 

And  down  the  dunes  a  thousand  guns  lie  couched, 

Unseen,  beside  the  flood,  — 
Like  tigers  in  some  Orient  jungle  crouched, 

That  wait  and  watch  for  blood. 

Meanwhile,  through  streets  still  echoing  with  trade, 

Walk  grave  and  thoughtful  men, 
Whose  hands  may  one  day  wield  the  patriot's  blade 

As  lightly  as  the  pen. 

And  maidens,  with  such  eyes  as  would  grow  dim 
Over  a  bleeding  hound, 


54  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Seem  each  one  to  have  caught  the  strength  of  him 
Whose  sword  she  sadly  bound. 

Thus  girt  without  and  garrisoned  at  home, 

Day  patient  following  day, 
Old  Charleston  looks  from  roof  and  spire  and  dome, 

Across  her  tranquil  bay. 

Ships,  through  a  hundred  foes,  from  Saxon  lands 

And  spicy  Indian  ports, 
Bring  Saxon  steel  and  iron  to  her  hands, 

And  summer  to  her  courts. 

But  still,  along  yon  dim  Atlantic  line, 

The  only  hostile  smoke 
Creeps  like  a  harmless  mist  above  the  brine, 

From  some  frail,  floating  oak. 

Shall  the  spring  dawn,  and  she,  still  clad  in  smiles, 

And  with  an  unscathed  brow, 
Rest  in  the  strong  arms  of  her  palm-crowned  isles, 

As  fair  and  free  as  now? 

We  know  not ;  in  the  temple  of  the  Fates 

God  has  inscribed  her  doom  : 
And,  all  untroubled  in  her  faith,  she  waits 

The  triumph  or  the  tomb. 

Henry  Timrod. 


CHARLESTON.  55 


MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY. 

SLEEP  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves,  — 
Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause  ! 
Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 
The  pilgrim  here  to  pause, 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone  ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold  !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

Small  tributes  !    but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies ! 
There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned ! 

Henry  Timrod. 


56  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Charlestown,  Va. 

BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE. 

JOHN  BROTTNT  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his  dying 
day: 
"  I  will  not  have,  to  shrive  my  soul,  a  priest  in  Slavery's 

Pay- 
But  let  some   poor   slave-mother  whom  I  have   striven 

to  free, 

With  her  children,   from  the  gallows-stair    put  up   a 
prayer  for  me  !  " 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him  out  to.  die ; 
And  lo  !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little  child  pressed 

nigh. 
Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and  the  old  harsh 

face  grew  mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and  kissed  the 

negro's  child! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment  fell  apart ; 
And  they  who  blamed  the   bloody  hand  forgave  the 

loving  heart. 
That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  redeemed  the  good 

intent, 
And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  martyr's  aureole 

bent! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through  evil  good  ! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained  with  human 
blood! 


CHICKAMAUGA,    THE    IlIVER.  57 

Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the  thought  which 

underlies ; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the  Christian's 

sacrifice. 

Nevermore   may   yon  Blue  Ridges    the   Northern   rifle 

hear, 
Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on  the  negro's 

spear. 
But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their  guarded  passes 

scale, 
To  teach  that   right   is    more   than,  might,  and  justice 

more  than  mail ! 

So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in  array ; 

In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the  winter  snow 

with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she  dares  not 

harm  the  dove  ; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate   shall  open  wide   to 

Love  ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittler. 


Chickamauga,  the  River,  Tenn. 

BY  CHICKAMAUGA  RIVER. 

AGAIN  the  wandering  breezes  bring 
The  music  of  the  sheaves ; 
Again  the  crickets  chirp  and  sing 
Among  the  golden  leaves. 


58  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Twelve  times  the  springs  have  oped  the  rills, 
Twelve  amber  autumns  sighed, 

Since  hung  the  war-cloud  o'er  the  hills, 
The  year  that  Charlie  died. 

The  springs  return;   the  roses  blow, 

And  croon  the  bird  and  bee, 
And  flutes  the  ring-dove's  love-call  low, 

Along  the  Tennessee  ; 
But  one  dear  voice,  one  cherished  tone, 

Returns  to  me  —  ah,  never! 
Eor  Charlie  fills  a  grave  unknown, 

By  Chickamauga  River. 

Kind  Nature  sets  her  blossoms  there, 

And  fall  the  vernal  rains; 
But  we  may  lay  no  garlands  fair 

Above  his  loved  remains. 
A  white  stone  marks  an  empty  grave 

Our  household  graves  beside, 
And  his  dear  name  to  it  we  gave 

The  year  that  Charlie  died. 

The  winds  of  fall  were  breathing  low, 

The  swallow  left  the  eaves ; 
We  heard  the  hollow  bugles  blow, 

When  fell  the  harvest  sheaves. 
And  swift  the  mustering  squadrons  passed, 

We  thought  of  Charlie  ever,  — 
And  swift  the  blue  brigades  were  massed 

By  Chickamauga  River. 


CHICKAMAUGA,    THE    RIVER.  59 

Along  the  mountain  spurs  we  saw 

The  wreaths  of  smoke  ascend; 
And,  all  the  Sabbath  day,  in  awe, 

We  watched  the  war  cloud  blend 
With  fall's  cerulean  sky,  and  dim 

The  wooded  mountain  side,  — 
Oh,  how  our  hearts  then  beat  for  him, 

The  year  that  Charlie  died ! 

How  Thomas  thundered  past  when  broke 

The  wavering  echelon ! 
How  down  the  sky  in  flame  and  smoke 

Low  sunk  the  copper  sun; 
The  still  night  came,  and  who  were  saved 

And  who  were  called  to  sever, 
We  could  not  tell;    our  banner  waved 

By  Chickamauga  River. 

And  some  returned  with  happy  feet, 

But  never  at  our  door 
The  fair-haired  boy  we  used  to  meet 

Came  back  to  greet  us  more. 
But  memory  seems  to  hear  the  fall 

Of  steps  at  eventide, 
And  all  the  changing  years  recall 

The  year  that  Charlie  died. 

Yet  such  a  gift  of  God  as  he 

'Tis  blessed  to  have  cherished; 
And  they  shall  ever  stainless  be 

Who  've  nobly  fought  and  perished. 


60  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

He  nobly  died,  and  lie  can  know 

No  dark  dishonor  ever, 
But  green  the  grass  for  him  shall  grow 

By  Chickamauga  River. 

Again  I  see  the  mountains  blaze 

In  autumn's  amber  light; 
Again  I  see  in  shimmering  haze 

The  valleys  long  and  bright. 
Old  Lookout  Mountain  towers  afar 

As  when,  in  lordly  pride, 
It  plumed  its  head  with  flags  of  war 

The  year  that  Charlie  died. 

On  wooded  Mission  Ridge  increase 

The  fruited  fields  of  fall, 
And  Chattanooga  sleeps  in  peace 

Beneath  her  mountain  wall. 
0  Country,  free  from  sea  to  sea, 

With  union  blest  forever, 
Not  vainly  heroes  died  for  thee 

By  Chickamauga  River ! 

Eezekiah  Butterworth. 


By  the  flow  of  the  inland  river."     See  page  61. 


COLUMBUS.  61 

Columbus,  Miss. 

THE  BLUE  AND  THE  GRAY, 

"THE  women  of  Columbus,  Mississippi,  have  shown  themselves  impartial 
in  their  offerings  made  to  the  memory  of  the  dead.  They  strewed  flowers 
alike  on  the  graves  of  the  Confederate  and  of  the  National  soldiers."  — 
New  York  Tribune. 

"DY  the  flow  of  the  inland  river, 

>  Whence  the  fleets  of  iron  have  fled, 
Where  the  blades  of  the  grave-grass  quiver, 
Asleep  are  the  ranks  of  the  dead;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ;  — 
Under  the  one,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  other,  the  Gray. 

These  in  the  robings  of  glory, 

Those  in  the  gloom  of  defeat, 
All  with  the  battle-blood  gory, 
In  the  dusk  of  eternity  meet; — • 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ;  — 
Under  the  laurel,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  willow,  the  Gray. 

From  the  silence  of  sorrowful  hours 

The  desolate  mourners  go, 
Lovingly  laden  with  flowers 

Alike  for  the  friend  and  the  foe;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 
Waiting  the  judgment  day;  — 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Under  the  roses,  the  Blue ; 
Under  the  lilies,  the  Gray. 

So  with  an  equal  splendor 

The  morning  sun-rays  fall, 
With  a  touch,  impartially  tender, 
On  the  blossoms  blooming  for  all; 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day ;  — 
Broidered  with  gold,  the  Blue ; 
Mellowed  with  gold,  the  Gray. 

So,  when  the  Summer  calleth, 
On  forest  and  field  of  grain 
With  an  equal  murmur  falleth 
The  cooling  drip  of  the  rain ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day;  — 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Blue ; 
Wet  with  the  rain,  the  Gray. 

Sadly,  but  not  with  upbraiding, 
The  generous  deed  was  done ; 
In  the  storm  of  the  years  that  are  fading, 
No  braver  battle  was  won ;  — 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day  ;  — 
Under  the  blossoms,  the  Blue; 
Under  the  garlands,  the  Gray. 

No  more  shall  the  war-cry  sever, 
Or  the  winding  rivers  be  red; 


COOSA,    THE    RIVER.  63 

They  banish  our  anger  forever 
When  they  laurel  the  graves  of  our  dead ! 
Under  the  sod  and  the  dew, 

Waiting  the  judgment  day;  — 
Love  and  tears  for  the  Blue, 
Tears  and  love  for  the  Gray. 

Francis  Miles  Finch. 


Coosa,  the  fiiver,   Ga. 

THE  RIVER  COOSA. 

HERE  Coosa's  quiet  waters  lave 
Bright  fields  that  blush  when  Summer  smiles ; 
The  sunlight  dances  on  the  wave 

By  white  shell  beds  and  marshy  isles; 
With  brimming  banks,  a  kindred  stream, 

Comb'hee  from  swamp  and  forest  pours; 
They  meet,  combined,  the  broader  gleam 

Of  ocean's  surge,  on  Otter's  shores; 
Light  clouds  in  pointed  masses  lie 

On  ether  floating  far  and  wide, 
Like  mountains  lifted  to  the  sky, 

Of  snowy  top  and  dusky  side; 
Sweeping  the  river's  utmost  bound, 

Blue  sky  and  emerald  marsh  between, 
Dark  lines  of  forest  circle  round, 

A  setting  for  the  pictured  scene; 
Serenely  beautiful  it  lies, 
Breathing  an  air  of  Paradise; 


64  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

So  soft,  so  still,  as  though  a  care 
Or  wrong  had  never  sheltered  there; 
As  though  no  eye  had  ever  shed 
Its  tears  of  anguish  for  the  dead, 
Nor  heart  with  sorrow  beat  or  bled. 

Fair  fields,  calm  river  smooth  and  bright, 
Sweet-breathing  flowers  and  rustling  trees, 
The  honeyed  haunts  of  early  bees, 

"Where  birds  with  morning  songs  unite 

To  hail  the  newly  risen  light, 

What  isles  of  earth  are  blessed  like  these  ? 

No  age,  no  blight  ye  ever  know, 
0  beauteous  land  and  glorious  sea! 

Still  shall  your  breezes  softly  blow, 

Your  rippling  waters  ever  flow, 
Blending  their  ceaseless  harmony, 

When  smiling  earth  and  glowing  sky 

No  longer  fill  the  gazer's  eye, 

Hushed  his  last  pulse  of  hope  and  fear ; 

When  passing  ages  shall  efface 

All  memory  of  his  name  and  race, 
Without  a  toil,  without  a  care, 

Nature  in  her  undying  grace, 

Each  form  and  show  as  fair  and  true, 
The  sea  as  bright,  the  sky  as  blue, 

Shall  glow  with  smiles  and  blushes  here. 

Still  shall  be  heard  the  loon's  lone  cry 
Upon  the  stream,  and  to  their  rest 

Long  trains  of  curlews  seaward  fly, 
At  sunset,  to  their  sandy  nest; 


DISMAL    SWAMP.  65 

Still  joyous  from  the  sparkling  tide 

With  silver  sides  shall  mullets  leap; 
The  eagle  soar  in  wonted  pride  ; 
And  by  their  eyrie  strong  and  wide, 

On  the  dry  oak  beside  the  deep, 

Their  watch  shall  busy  ospreys  keep; 
Still  shall  the  otter  win  his  prize, 

Stealthy  and  dextrous  as  before ; 
And  marsh-hens  fill  with  startled  cries 

Or  noisy  challenges  the  shore ; 
And,  when  from  the  redundant  main 

The  spring-tide  with  a  bolder  sweep 
Spreads  over  all  the  marshy  plain, 
Cunning  and  still  shall  sit  the  while 
On  drifted  sedge,  a  floating  isle, 

And  patiently  their  vigils  keep 

Till  the  short  deluge  sinks  again. 
*  *  * 

William  J.  Gray  son,. 


Dismal  Sic  amp,  Va. 

THE  LAKE  OF  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 

THEY  tell  of  a  young  man  who  lost  his  mind  upon  the  death  of  a 
girl  he  loved,  and  who,  suddenly  disappearing  from  his  friends,  was 
never  afterwards  heard  of.  As  he  had  frequently  said,  in  his  ravings, 
that  the  girl  was  not  dead,  but  gone  to  the  Dismal  Swamp,  it  is  supposed 
he  had  wandered  into  that  dreary  wilderness,  and  had  died  of  hunger,  or 
been  lost  iu  some  of  its  dreadful  morasses. 

"HpHEY  made  her  a  grave,  too  cold  and  damp 

-L      Eor  a  soul  so  warm  and  true: 
And  she  's  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 


66  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Where,  all  night  long,  by  a  firefly  lamp, 
She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 

"And  her  firefly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 

And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear; 
Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 
And  I  '11  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress-tree, 
When  the  footstep  of  Death  is  near." 

Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds, — 

His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
Through  many  a  fen,  where  the  serpent  feeds, 

And  man  never  trod  before. 

And,  when  on  the  earth  he  sunk  to  sleep, 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew, 
He  lay,  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear  and  nightly  steep 

The  flesh  with  blistering  dew  ! 

And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirred  the  brake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear, 
Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 
"Oh!  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  ?  " 

He  saw  the  Lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  surface  played,  — 
"Welcome,"  he  said,  "my  dear-one's  light!" 
And  the  dim  shore  echoed,  for  many  a  night, 
The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid. 

Till  he  hollowed  a  boat  of  the  birchen  bark, 
Which  carried  him  off  from  shore ; 


DISMAL    SWAMP.  67 

Par,  far  he  followed  the  meteor  spark, 
The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds  were  dark, 
And  the  boat  returned  no  more. 

But  oft,  from  the  Indian  hunter's  camp 

This  lover  and  maid  so  true 
Are  seen  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp 
To  cross  the  Lake  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

And  paddle  their  wliite  canoe ! 

Thomas  Moore, 


THE  SLAVE  IN  THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 

IN  dark  fens  of  the  Dismal  Swamp 
The  hunted  Negro  lay; 
He  saw  the  fire  of  the  midnight  camp, 
And  heard  at  times  a  horse's  tramp 
And  a  bloodhound's  distant  bay. 

Where  will-o'-the-wisps  and  glow-worms  shine, 

In  bulrush  and  in  brake  ; 
Where  waving  mosses  shroud  the  pine, 
And  the  cedar  grows,  and  the  poisonous  vine 

Is  spotted  like  the  snake; 

Where  hardly  a  human  foot  could  pass, 

Or  a  human  heart  would  dare, 
On  the  quaking  turf  of  the  green  morass 
He  crouched  in  the  rank  and  tangled  grass, 

Like  a  wild  beast  in  his  lair. 

A  poor  old  slave,  infirm  and  lame; 
Great  scars  deformed  his  face ; 


68  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

On  his  forehead  he  bore  the  brand  of  shame, 
And  the  rags,  that  hid  his  mangled  frame, 
Were  the  livery  of  disgrace. 

All  things  above  were  bright  and  fair, 

All  things  were  glad  and  free ; 
Lithe  squirrels  darted  here  and  there, 
And  wild  birds  filled  the  echoing  air 

With  songs  of  Liberty  ! 

On  him  alone  was  the  doom  of  pain, 

Prom  the  morning  of  his  birth; 
On  him  alone  the  curse  of  Cain 
Pell,  like  a  flail  on  the  garnered  grain, 

And  struck  him  to  the  earth! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 

THE  EDGE  OF  THE  SWAMP. 

'FT!  IS  a  wild  spot,  and  hath  a  gloomy  look; 
J-    The  bird  sings  never  merrily  in  the  trees, 
And  the  young  leaves  seem  blighted.     A  rank  growth 
Spreads  poisonously  round,  with  power  to  taint 
With  blistering  dews  the  thoughtless  hand  that  dares 
To  penetrate  the  covert.     Cypresses 
Crowd  on  the  dank,  wet  earth ;  and,  stretched  at  length, 
The  cayman — a  fit  dweller  in  such  home  — 
Slumbers,  half  buried  in  the  sedgy  grass. 
Beside  the  green  ooze  where  he  shelters  him, 
A  whooping  crane  erects  his  skeleton  form, 
And  shrieks  in  flight.     Two  summer  ducks,  aroused 
To  apprehension,  as  they  hear  his  cry, 


:T  is  a  wild  spot,  and  hath  a  gloomy  look."     See  page  08. 


DISMAL    SWAMP.  69 

Dash  up  from  the  lagoon,  with  marvellous  haste, 
Following  his  guidance.     Meetly  taught  by  these, 
And  startled  at  our  rapid,  near  approach, 
The  steel-jawed  monster,  from  his  grassy  bed, 
Crawls  slowly  to  his  slimy,  green  abode, 
Which  straight  receives  him.     You  behold  him  now, 
His  ridgy  back  uprising  as  he  speeds, 
In  silence,  to  the  centre  of  the  stream, 
Whence  his  head  peers  alone.     A  butterfly, 
That,  travelling,  all  the  day,  has  counted  climes 
Only  by  flowers,  to  rest  himself  awhile, 
Lights  on  the  monster's  brow.     The  surly  mute 
Straightway  goes  down,  so  suddenly  that  he, 
The  dandy  of  the  summer  flowers  and  woods, 
Dips  his  light  wings,  and  spoils  his  golden  coat, 
With  the  rank  water  of  that  turbid  pond. 
Wondering  and  vexed,  the  plumed  citizen 
Flies,  with  a  hurried  effort,  to  the  shore, 
Seeking  his  kindred  flowers  :  but  seeks  in  vain,  — 
Nothing  of  genial  growth  may  there  be  seen, 
Nothing  of  beautiful !     Wild,  ragged  trees, 
That  look  like  felon  spectres,  —  fetid  shrubs, 
That  taint  the  gloomy  atmosphere,  —  dusk  shades, 
That  gather,  half  a  cloud,  and  half  a  fiend 
In  aspect,  lurking  on  the  swamp's  wild  edge,  — 
Gloom  with  their  sternness  and  forbidding  frowns 
The  general  prospect.     The  sad  butterfly, 
Waving  his  lackered  wings,  darts  quickly  on, 
And,  by  his  free  flight,  counsels  us  to  speed 
For  better  lodgings,  and  a  scene  more  sweet, 
Than  these  drear  borders  offer  us  to-night, 

William  Gilmore  Simms. 


70  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Eutaw,  S.  C. 

TO   THE   MEMORY    OF    THE  AMERICANS  WHO   FELL   AT 
EUTAW. 

AT  Eutaw  Springs  the  valiant  died; 
Their  limbs  with  dust  are  covered  o'er,  — 
Weep  on,  ye  springs,  your  tearful  tide ; 
How  many  heroes  are  no  more  ! 

If,  in  this  wreck  of  ruin,  they 

Can  yet  be  thought  to  claim  the  tear, 

Oh,  smite  your  gentle  breast,  and  say, 
The  friends  of  freedom  slumber  here! 

Thou  who  shalt  trace  this  bloody  plain, 
If  goodness  rules  thy  generous  breast, 

Sigh  for  the  wasted  rural  reign; 

Sigh  for  the  shepherds,  sunk  to  rest ! 

Stranger,  their  humble  graves  adorn ; 

You  too  may  fall,  and  ask  a  tear: 
JT  is  not  the  beauty  of  the  morn 

That  proves  the  evening  shall  be  clear. 

They  saw  their  injured  country's  woe ; 

The  naming  town,  the  wasted  field; 
Then  rushed  to  meet  the  insulting  foe ; 

They  took  the  spear,  —  but  left  the  shield. 

Led  by  thy  conquering  genius,  Greene, 
The  Britons  they  compelled  to  fly: 


FREDERICK    CITY.  71 

None  distant  viewed  the  fatal  plain; 
None  grieved,  in  such  a  cause  to  die. 

But  like  the  Parthians,  famed  of  old, 
Who,  flying,  still  their  arrows  threw; 

These  routed  Britons,  full  as  bold, 
Retreated,  and  retreating  slew. 

Now  rest  in  peace,  our  patriot  band; 

Though  far  from  Nature's  limits  thrown, 
We  trust  they  find  a  happier  land, 

A  brighter  sunshine  of  their  own. 

Philip  Freneau. 


Frederick    City,    Md. 

BARBARA  FEIETCHIE. 

TTP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
U    Clear  in  the  cool  September  mom, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Pair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain- wall,  — 


72  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind:  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down; 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced:  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"Halt!"  —the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast, 
"Fire!"  — out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 


FREDERICK    CUT.  73 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog!     March  on!"  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet: 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her!  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stonewall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave ! 


74  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Fredericksburg,  Va. 

FREDERIGKSBURG, 

THE  increasing  moonlight  drifts  across  my  bed, 
And  on  the  churchyard  by  the  road,  I  know 
It  falls  as  white  and  noiselessly  as  snow. 
'T  was  such  a  night  two  weary  summers  fled ; 
The  stars,  as  now,  were  waning  overhead. 
Listen !     Again  the  shrill-lipped  bugles  blow- 
Where  the  swift  currents  of  the  river  flow 
Past  Fredericksburg :  far  off  the  heavens  are  red 
With  sudden  conflagration:  on  yon  height, 
Linstock  in  hand,  the  gunners  hold  their  breath : 
A  signal-rocket  pierces  the  dense  night, 
Flings  its  spent  stars  upon  the  town  beneath: 
Hark!— the  artillery  massing  on  the  right, 
Hark! — the  black  squadrons  wheeling  down  to  Death  ! 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


FREDERIC  KSBURG.  75 


IN  THE  OLD  CHURCHYARD. 

IN  the  old  churchyard  at  Fredericksburg 
A  gravestone  stands  to-day, 
Marking  the  place  where  a  grave  has  been, 
Though  many  and  many  a  year  has  it  seen 
Since  its  tenant  mouldered  away. 
And  that  quaintly  carved  old  stone 

Tells  its  simple  tale  to  all :  — 
"Here  lies  a  bearer  of  the  pall 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare." 

There  in  the  churchyard  at  Fredericksburg 

I  wandered  all  alone, 
Thinking  sadly  on  empty  fame, 
H'ow  the  great  dead  are  but  a  name, — 
To  few  are  they  really  known.     • 
Then  upon  this  battered  stone 

My  listless  eye  did  fall, 
Where  lay  the  bearer  of  the  pall 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare. 

Then  in  the  churchyard  at  Fredericksburg 

It  seemed  as  though  the  air 
Were  peopled  with  phantoms  that  swept  by, 
Flitting  along  before  my  eye, 
So  sad,  so  sweet,  so  fair; 
Hovering  about  this  stone, 

By  some  strange  spirit's  call, 
Where  lay  a  bearer  of  the  pall 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare. 


76  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

For  in  the  churchyard  at  Fredericksburg 

Juliet  seemed  to  love, 
Hamlet  mused,  and  the  old  Lear  fell, 
Beatrice  laughed,  and  Ariel 

Gleamed  through  the  skies  above, 
As  here,  beneath  this  stone, 

Lay  in  his  narrow  hall 
He  who  before  had  borne  the  pall 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare. 

And  I  left  the  old  churchyard  at  Fredericksburg ; 

Still  did  the  tall  grass  wave, 
With  a  strange  and  beautiful  grace, 
Over  the  sad  and  lonely  place, 
Where  hidden  lay  the  grave  ; 

And  still  did  the  quaint  old  stone 
9  1        Tell  its  wonderful  tale  to  all :  — 
"  Here  lies  a  bearer  of  the  pall 
At  the  funeral  of  Shakespeare." 

Frederick  W.  Loring. 


BAY  BILLY. 

'fjl  WAS  the  last  fight  at  Fredericksburg,  — 

Perhaps  the  day  you  reck, 
Our  boys,  the  Twenty-Second  Maine, 

Kept  Early's  men  in  check. 
Just  where  Wade  Hampton  boomed  away 

The  fight  went  neck  and  neck. 


FREDERICKSBURG.  77 

All  day  the  weaker  wing  we  lield, 

And  held  it  with  a  will. 
Five  several  stubborn  times  we  charged 

The  battery  on  the  hill, 
And  five  times  beaten  back,  re-formed, 

And  kept  our  column  still. 

At  last  from  out  the  centre  fight 

Spurred  up  a  General's  Aid. 
"  That  battery  must  silenced  be  !  " 

He  cried,  as  past  he  sped. 
Our  Colonel  simply  touched  his  cap, 

And  then,  with  measured  tread, 

To  lead  the  crouching  line  once  more 

The  grand  old  fellow  came. 
No  wounded  man  but  raised  his  head 

And  strove  to  gasp  his  name, 
And  those  who  could  not  speak  nor  stir, 

"  God  blessed  him  "  just  the  same. 

For  he  was  all  the  world  to  us, 

That  hero  gray  and  grim. 
Right  well  he  knew  that  fearful  slope 

We  'd  climb  with  none  but  him, 
Though  while  his  white  head  led  the  way 

We  'd  charge  hell's  portals  in. 

This  time  we  were  not  half-way  up, 
When,  midst  the  storm  of  shell, 


78  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Our  leader,  with  his  sword  upraised, 

Beneath  our  bayonets  fell. 
And,  as  we  bore  him  back,  the  foe 

Set  up  a  joyous  yell. 

Our  hearts  went  with  him.     Back  we  swept, 

And  when  the  bugle  said 
"  Up,  charge,  again  !  "  no  man  was  there 

But  hung  his  dogged  head. 
"We  've  no  one  left  to  lead  us  now," 

The  sullen  soldiers  said. 

Just  then  before  the  laggard  line 
The  Colonel's  horse  we  spied, 

Bay  Billy  with  his  trappings  on, 
His  nostrils  swelling  wide, 

As  though  still  on  his  gallant  back 
The  master  sat  astride. 

Right  royally  he  took  the  place 

That  was  of  old  his  wont, 
And  with  a  neigh  that  seemed  to  say, 

Above  the  battle's  brunt, 
"How  can  the  Twenty-Second  charge 

If  I  am  not  in  front?  " 

Like  statues  rooted  there  we  stood, 

And  gazed  a  little  space, 
Above  that  floating  mane  we  missed 

The  dear  familiar  face, 


FREDERICKSBURG.  79 

But  we  saw  Bay  Billy's  eye  of  fire, 
And  it  gave  us  heart  of  grace. 

No  bugle-call  could  rouse  us  all 

As  that  brave  sight  had  done. 
Down  all  the  battered  line  we  felt 

A  lightning  impulse  run. 
Up !  up  !  the  hill  we  followed  Bill, 

And  we  captured  every  gun! 

And  when  upon  the  conquered  height 

Died  out  the  battle's  hum, 
Vainly  mid  living  and  the  dead 

We  sought  our  leader  dumb. 
It  seemed  as  if  a  spectre  steed 

To  win  that  day  had  come. 

And  then  the  dusk  and  dew  of  night 

Fell  softly  o'er  the  plain, 
As  though  o'er  man's  dread  work  of  death 

The  angels  wept  again, 
And  drew  night's  curtain  gently  round 

A  thousand  beds  of  pain. 

All  night  the  surgeons'  torches  went, 

The  ghastly  rows  between, — 
All  night  with  solemn  step  I  paced 

The  torn  and  bloody  green. 
But  who  that  fought  in  the  big  war 

Such  dread  sights  have  not  seen? 

At  last  the  morning  broke.     The  lark 
Sang  in  the  merry  skies 


80  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

As  if  to  e'en  the  sleepers  there 
It  bade  awake,  and  rise ! 

Though  naught  but  that  last  trump  of  all 
Could  ope  their  heavy  eyes. 

And  then  once  more  with  banners  gay, 
Stretched  out  the  long  Brigade. 

Trimly  upon  the  furrowed  field 
The  troops  stood  on  parade, 

And  bravely  mid  the  ranks  were  closed 
The  gaps  the  fight  had  made. 

Not  half  the  Twenty-Second's  men 
Were  in  their  place  that  morn, 

And  Corporal  Dick,  who  yester-noon 
Stood  six  brave  fellows  on, 

Now  touched  my  elbow  in  the  ranks, 
Tor  all  between  were  gone. 

Ah  !  who  forgets  that  dreary  hour 
When,  as  with  misty  eyes, 

To  call  the  old  familiar  roll 

The  solemn  Sergeant  tries, — 

One  feels  that  thumping  of  the  heart 
As  no  prompt  voice  replies. 

And  as  in  faltering  tone  and  slow 
The  last  few  names  were  said, 

Across  the  field  some  missing  horse 
Toiled  up  with  weary  tread, 

It  caught  the  Sergeant's  eye,  and  quick 
Bay  Billy's  name  he  read. 


GOSHEN    PASS.  81 

Yes  !  there  the  old  bay  hero  stood, 

All  safe  from  battle's  harms, 
And  ere  an  order  could  be  heard, 

Or  the  bugle's  quick  alarms, 
Down  all  the  front,  from  end  to  end, 

The  troops  presented  arms ! 

Not  all  the  shoulder-straps  on  earth 

Could  still  our  mighty  cheer; 
And  ever  from  that  famous  day, 

When  rang  the  roll-call  clear, 
Bay  Billy's  name  was  read,  and  then 

The  whole  line  answered,  "  Here  !  " 

Frank  H.  Gassaway. 


Goshen  Pass,  Va. 

THROUGH  THE  GOSHEN  PASS. 

MATTHEW    F.    MAURY's    LAST   WISH. 


,  —  bear  me  home  at  last,"  he  said, 
And  lay  me  where  my  dead  are  lying, 
But  not  while  skies  are  overspread, 

And  mournful  wintry  winds  are  sighing. 

"Wait  till  the  royal  march  of  Spring 
Carpets  your  mountain  fastness  over,  — 

Till  chattering  birds  are  on  the  wing, 
And  buzzing  bees  are  in  the  clover. 


82  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Wait  till  the  laurel  bursts  its  buds, 
And  creeping  ivy  flings  its  graces 

About  the  lichened  rocks,  and  floods 
Of  sunshine  fill  the  shady  places. 

"Then,  when  the  sky,  the  air,  the  grass, 
Sweet  Nature  all,  is  glad  and  tender, 

Then  bear  me  through  the  Goshen  Pass, 
Amid  its  flush  of  May-day  splendor." 

So  will  we  bear  him !  Human  heart 
To  the  warm  Earth's  drew  never  nearer, 

And  never  stooped  she  to  impart 

Lessons  to  one  who  held  them  dearer. 


His  noble  living  for  the  ends 

God  set  him  (duty  underlying 
Each  thought,  word,  action)  naught  transcends 

In  lustre,  save  his  nobler  dying. 

Do  homage,  sky,  and  air,  and  grass, 

All  things  he  cherished,  sweet  and  tender, 

As  through  our  gorgeous  mountain-pass 
We  bear  him  in  the  May-day  splendor ! 

Anonymous. 


HAMPTON.  83 

Hampton,  Va. 

THREE  SUMMER  STUDIES. 
MORNING. 

THE  cock  liath  crowed.     I  hear  the  doors  unbarred ; 
Down  to  the  grass-grown  porch  my  way  I  take, 
And  hear,  beside  the  well  within  the  yard, 

Full  many  an  ancient  quacking,  splashing  drake, 
And  gabbling  goose,  and  noisy  brood-hen,  —  all 
Responding  to  yon  strutting  gobbler's  call. 

The  dew  is  thick  upon  the  velvet  grass, 
The  porch  rails  hold  it  in  translucent  drops, 

And  as  the  cattle  from  the  enclosure  pass, 
Each  one,  alternate,  slowly  halts  and  crops 

The  tall,  green  spears,  with  all  their  dewy  load, 

Which  grow  beside  the  well-known  pasture-road. 

A  humid  polish  is  on  all  the  leaves,  — • 

The  birds  flit  in  and  out  with  varied  notes, 

The  noisy  swallows  twitter  'neath  the  eaves, 
A  partridge  whistle  through  the  garden  floats, 

While  yonder  gaudy  peacock  harshly  cries, 

As  red  and  gold  flush  all  the  eastern  skies. 

Up  comes  the'  sun  !  Through  the  dense  leaves  a  spot 
Of  splendid  light  drinks  up  the  dew;  the  breeze 

Which  late  made  leafy  music  dies ;  the  day  grows  hot, 
And  slumbrous  sounds  come  from  marauding  bees : 


84  £OEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  burnished  river  like  a  sword-blade  shines, 
Save  where  't  is  shadowed  by  the  solemn  pines. 


Over  the  farm  is  brooding  silence  now, — 
No  reaper's  song,  no  raven's  clangor  harsh, 

No  bleat  of  sheep,  no  distant  low  of  cow, 

No  croak  of  frogs  within  the  spreading  marsh, 

fto  bragging  cock  from  littered  farmyard  crows, — 

The  scene  is  steeped  in  silence  and  repose. 

A  trembling  haze  hangs  over  all  the  fields,  — 
The  panting  cattle  in  the  river  stand, 

Seeking  the  coolness  which  its  wave  scarce  yields. 
It  seems  a  Sabbath  through  the  drowsy  land ; 

So  hushed  is  all  beneath  the  Summer's  spell, 

I  pause  and  listen  for  some  faint  church  bell. 

The  leaves  are  motionless,  the  song-birds  mute; 

The  very  air  seems  somnolent  and  sick: 
The  spreading  branches  with  o'er-ripened  fruit 

Show  in  the  sunshine  all  their  clusters  thick, 
While  now  and  then  a  mellow  apple  falls 
With  a  dull  thud  within  the  orchard's  walls. 

The  sky  has  but  one  solitary  cloud, 
Like  a  dark  island  in  a  sea  of  light ; 

The  parching  furrows  'twixt  the  corn-rows  ploughed 
Seem  fairly  dancing  in  my  dazzled  sight, 

While  over  yonder  road  a  dusty  haze 

Grows  luminous  beneath  the  sun's  fierce  blaze. 


"  The  spreading  branches  with  o'er  i*i?eiied  frriV     gee  p.-ige'  8-i. 


HAMPTON.  85 

EVENING. 

That  solitary  cloud  grows  dark  and  wide, 
While  distant  thunder  rumbles  in  the  air,  — 

A  fitful  ripple  breaks  the  river's  tide,  — 
The  lazy  cattle  are  no  longer  there, 

But  homeward  come,  in  long  procession  slow, 

With  many  a  bleat  and  many  a  plaintive  low. 

Darker  and  wider  spreading  o'er  the  west 
Advancing  clouds,  each  in  fantastic  form, 

And  mirrored  turrets  on  the  river's  breast, 
Tell  in  advance  the  coming  of  a  storm,  — 

Closer  and  brighter  glares  the  lightning's  flash, 

And  louder,  nearer  sounds  the  thunder's  crash. 

The  air  of  evening  is  intensely  hot, 

The  breeze  feels  heated  as  it  fans  my  brows,  — 
Now  sullen  rain-drops  patter  down  like  shot, 

Strike  in  the  grass,  or  rattle  mid  the  boughs. 
A  sultry  lull,  and  then  a  gust  again, — 
And  now  I  see  the  thick  advancing  rain! 

It  fairly  hisses  as  it  drives  along, 

And  where  it  strikes  breaks  up  in  silvery  spray 
As  if  't  were  dancing  to  the  fitful  song 

Made  by  the  trees,  which  twist  themselves  and  sway 
In  contest  with  the  wind,  that  rises  fast 
Until  the  breeze  becomes  a  furious  blast. 

And  now,  the  sudden,  fitful  storm  has  fled, 

The  clouds  lie  piled  up  in  the  splendid  West, 
In  massive  shadow  tipped  with  purplish  red, 


86  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Crimson,  or  gold.     The  scene  is  one  of  rest; 
And  on  the  bosom  of  yon  still  lagoon 
I  see  the  crescent  of  the  pallid  moon. 

James  Barron  Hope. 


Hampton  Roads,    Va. 

THE  ATTACK. 

IN  Hampton  Roads  the  airs  of  March  were  bland, 
Peace  on  the  deck,  and  in  the  fortress  sleeping, 
Till,  in  the  lookout  of  the  Cumberland, 
The  sailor,  with  his  well-poised  glass  in  hand, 
Descried  the  iron  island  downward  creeping. 

A  sudden  wonder  seized  on  land  and  bay, 

And  Tumult,  with  her  train,  was  there  to  follow; 
Eor  still  the  stranger  kept  its  seaward  way, 
Looking  a  great  leviathan  blowing  spray, 

Seeking  with  steady  course  his  ocean  wallow. 

And  still  it  came,  and  largened  on  the  sight; 

A  floating  monster,  ugly  and  gigantic; 
In  shape,  a  wave,  with  long  and  shelving  height, 
As  if  a  mighty  billow,  heaved  at  night, 

Should  turn  to  iron  in  the  mid-Atlantic. 

Then  ship  and  fortress  gazed  with  anxious  stare, 

Until  the  Cumberland's  cannon,  silence  breaking, 
Thundered  its  guardian  challenge,  "Who  comes  there ?; 


HAMPTON    ROADS.  8? 

But,  like  a  rock-flung  echo  in  the  air, 

The  shot  rebounded,  no  impression  making. 

Then  roared  a  broadside  j  though  directed  well, 

On,  like  a  nightmare,  moved  the  shape  defiant ; 
The  tempest  of  our  pounding  shot  and  shell, 
Crumbled  to  harmless  nothing,  thickly  fell 
Trom  off  the  sounding  armor  of  the  giant ! 

Unchecked,  still  onward  through  the  storm  it  broke, 

With  beak  directed  at  the  vessel's  centre ; 
Then  through  the  constant  cloud  of  sulphurous  smoke 
Drove,  till  it  struck  the  warrior's  wall  of  oak, 
Making  a  gateway  for  the  waves  to  enter. 

Struck,  and  to  note  the  mischief  done,  withdrew, 
And  then,  with  all  a  murderer's  impatience, 

Rushed  on  again,  crushing  her  ribs  anew, 

Cleaving  the  noble  hull  wellnigh  in  two, 
And  on  it  sped  its  fiery  imprecations. 

Swift  through  the  vessel  swept  the  drowning  swell, 
With  splash,  and  rush,  and  guilty  rise  appalling; 

While  sinking  cannon  rung  their  own  loud  knell. 

Then  cried  the  traitor,  from  his  sulphurous  cell, 
"Do  you  surrender?"    Oh,  those  words  were  galling! 

How  spake  our  captain  to  his  comrades  then? 

It  was  a  shout  from  out  a  soul  of  splendor, 
Echoed  from  lofty  maintop,  and  again 
Between-decks,  from  the  lips  of  dying  men, 

"  Sink  !  sink,  boys,  sink  !  but  never  say  surrender  ! " 


88  POEMS  or  PLACES. 

Down  went  the  ship  !     Down,  down ;  but  never  down 

Her  sacred  flag  to  insolent  dictator. 
Weep  for  the  patriot  heroes,  doomed  to  drown; 
Pledge  to  the  sunken  Cumberland's  renown. 

She  sank,  thank  God !  unsoiled  by  foot  of  traitor ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

T  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

I    Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

j_  A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 

And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 
Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside! 


HAMPTON    HO  ADS.  89 

As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
Prom  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"Strike  your  flag!"  the  rebel  cries, 

In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 
"  Never  !  "  our  gallant  Morris  replies ; 

"It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield!" 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  krakcn  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast  head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream; 
Ho  !  brave  land !  with  hearts  like  these, 

Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 

Shall  be  one  again, 

And  without  a  seam  ! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


90  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

^    * 

Harper's  Ferry,    Va. 

HOW  OLD  BROWN  TOOK  HARPER'S  FERRY. 

JOHN  BROWN  in  Kansas   settled,  like  a  steadfast 
Yankee  farmer, 
Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  all  stalwart  men  of 

might. 

There   he   spoke   aloud  for  freedom,  and  the   Border- 
strife  grew  warmer, 

Till  the  Hangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in  his  absence,  in 
the  night; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Came   homeward  in  the   morning  —  to  find  his  house 
burned  down. 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle  and  boldly  fought  for 

freedom  ; 
Smote  from  border  unto  border  the  fierce,  invading 

band ; 
And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed  —  so  might  Heaven 

help  and  speed  'em  !  — 

They  would  save  those  grand  old  prairies  from  the 
curse  that  blights  the  land; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Said,  "  Boys,  the   Lord  will  aid  us ! "  and  he  shoved 
his  ramrod  down. 


HARPER'S  FERRY.  91 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they  labored  day 

and  even, 
Saving  Kansas  from  its  peril;    and  their  very  lives 

seemed  charmed, 
Till  the  ruffians  killed  one  son,  in  the  blessed  light  of 

Heaven,  — 

In  cold  blood  the  fellows  slew  him,  as  he  journeyed 
all  unarmed ; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Shed  not   a  tear,  but   shut  his  teeth,  and  frowned  a 
terrible  frown! 

Then  they  seized  another  brave  boy,  —  not   amid  the 

heat  of  battle, 
But  in   peace,   behind   his   ploughshare,  —  and   they 

loaded  him  with  chains, 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as  they  goad 

their  cattle, 

Drove  him  cruelly,  for  their  sport,  and  at  last  blew 
out  his  brains  ; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Raised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  calling  Heaven's 
vengeance  down. 

And  he   swore   a  fearful   oath,   by  the  name   of    the 

Almighty, 
He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil  that  had  scathed 

and  torn  him  so ; 
He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals ;  he  would  crush  it  day 

and  night ;  he 


92  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Would  so  pursue  its  footsteps,  so  return  it  blow  for 
blow, 

That  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Should  be   a  name  to   swear  by,  in  backwoods   or  in 
town ! 

Then  his   beard  became   more   grizzled,   and  his  wild 

blue  eye  grew  wilder, 
And  more  sharply  curved   his    hawk's-nose,   snuffing 

battle  from  afar; 
And  he   and  the    two   boys   left,    though   the   Kansas 

strife  "waxed  milder, 

Grew  more  sullen,  till  was   over  the   bloody  Border 
War, 

And  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Had  gone  crazy,  as  they  reckoned  by  his  fearful  glare 
and  frown. 

So  he  left  the  plains  of  Kansas  and  their  bitter  woes 

behind  him, 
Slipt  off  into  Virginia,  where  the   statesmen  all  are 

born, 
Hired  a  farm  by  Harper's   Terry,   and   no  one   knew 

where  to  find  him, 

Or  whether  he  'd  turned  parson,  or  was  jacketed  and 
shorn ; 

Tor  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Mad  as  he  was,  knew  texts  enough  to  wear  a  parson's 
gown. 


HARPER'S  FERRY.  93 

He  bought  no  ploughs  and  harrows,  spades  and  shovels, 

and  such  trifles  ; 

But  quietly  to  his  rancho  there  came,  by  every  train, 
Boxes  full  of   pikes    and   pistols,  and   his  well-beloved 

Sharp's  rifles  ; 

And  eighteen  other  madmen  joined  their  leader  there 
again. 

Says  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattoinie  Brown, 

"  Boys,  we  've  got  an  army  large  enough  to  march  and 
take  the  town  ! 

"  Take  the  town,  and  seize  the  muskets,  free  the  negroes 

and  then  arm  them; 
Carry  the  County  and  the  State,  ay,  and  all  the  potent 

South. 
On  their  own  heads  be  the  slaughter,  if  their  victims 

rise  to  harm  them  — 

These  Virginians  T  who  believed  not,  nor  would  heed 
the  warning  mouth." 

Says  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattoinie  Brown, 

"The  world  shall  see  a  Republic,  or  my  name  is  not 
John  Brown." 

'T  was  the  sixteenth  of  October,  on  the  evening  of  a 

Sunday : 
"This  good  work,"  declared  the  captain,  "shall  be 

on  a  holy  night !  " 
It  was  on  a  Sunday  evening,  and  before  the  noon  of 

Monday, 


94  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

With  two   sons,  and   Captain   Stephens,  fifteen  pri 
vates —  black  and  white, 
Captain  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Marched  across  the  bridged  Potomac,  and  knocked  the 
sentry  down ; 

Took  the  guarded  armory-building,  and  the  muskets  and 

the  cannon ; 
Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the  colonels,  one 

by  one; 
Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia  they  ran 

on, 

And  before  the  noon  of  Monday,  I   say,  the  deed 
was  done. 

Mad  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men,  went  in  and  took 
the  town. 

Very  little  noise  and  bluster,  little   smell  of  powder 

made  he ; 
It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the  Emperor's 

coup  d'etat. 
11  Cut  the  wires  !     Stop  the  rail-cars  !     Hold  the  streets 

and  bridges  !  "  said  he, 

Then  declared  the  new  Republic,  with  himself  for 
guiding  star, — 

This  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown; 

And  the  bold  two   thousand   citizens   ran  off  and  left 
the  town. 


HARPER'S  FERRY.  95 

Then  was  riding  and  railroading  and   expressing  here 

and  thither; 

And  the  Martinsburg  Sharpshooters  and  the  Charles- 
town  Volunteers, 
And  the  Shepherdstown  and  Winchester  Militia  hastened 

whither 

Old  Brown  was   said  to   muster  his  ten  thousand 
grenadiers. 

General  Brown  ! 
Ossawattomie  Brown ! ! 

Behind  whose  rampant  banner  all  the  North  was  pouring 
down. 

But  at  last,  't  is  said,  some  prisoners  escaped  from  Old 

Brown's  durance, 

And  the  effervescent  valor  of  the  Chivalry  broke  out, 
When  they  learned  that  nineteen  madmen  had  the  mar 
vellous  assurance  — 

Only  nineteen  —  thus  to  seize  the  place  and  drive 
them  straight  about; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Found  an  army  come   to  take   him,  encamped  around 
the  town. 

But  to  storm,  with  all  the  forces  I  have  mentioned, 

was  too  risky ; 
So  they  hurried  off  to  Richmond  for  the  Government 

Marines, 
Tore  them  from  their  weeping  matrons,  fired  their  souls 

with  Bourbon  whiskey, 


90  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Till  they  battered   down   Brown's   castle  with  their 
ladders  and  machines; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Ossawaltomie  Brown, 

Received  three  bayonet  stabs,  and  a  cut  on  his  brave 
old  crown. 

Tallyho !  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather  to  the  baying  ! 
In  they  rnshed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting  lustily 

away ; 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel,  those  who  came  too 

late  for  slaying, 

Not  to  lose  a  share   of  glory,  fired  their  bullets  in 
his  clay; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and  between  them 
laid  him  down. 

How   the   conquerors   wore    their    laurels;   how  they 

hastened  on  the  trial ; 
How    Old    Brown    was   placed,  half  dying,    on    the 

Charlestown  court-house  floor; 
How  he  spoke  his  grand   oration,  in    the  scorn  of  all 

denial ; 

What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them, —  these  are 
known  the  country  o'er. 

"Hang  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown," 

Said  the  judge,  "  and  all  such  rebels ! "  with  his  most 
judicial  frown. 


HATTERAS,    THE    CAPE.  9? 

But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it!  for  I  tell  you  that  the 

flagon, 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  offspring,  was  first 

poured  by  Southern  hands ; 
And  each  drop  from  Old   Brown's   life-veins,  like  the 

red  gore  of  the  dragon, 

May  spring  up  a  vengeful  Fury,  hissing  through  your 
slave- worn  lands ! 

And  Old  Brown, 
Ossawattomie  Brown, 

May  trouble  you  more  than  ever,  when  you  've  nailed 
his  coffin  down  ! 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


Hatteras,  the  Cape,  N.  C. 

HATTERAS. 

IN  fathoms  five  the  anchor  gone ; 
While  here  we  furl  the  sail, 
No  longer  vainly  laboring  on 
Against  the  western  gale  : 
While  here  thy  bare  and  barren  cliifs, 
O  Ilatteras,  I  survey, 
And  shallow  grounds  and  broken  reefs,  — 
What  shall  console  niy  stay! 

The  dangerous  shoal,  that  breaks  the  wave 

In  columns  to  the  sky ; 

The  tempests  black,  that  hourly  rave, 


98  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Portend  all  danger  nigh: 
Sad  are  my  dreams  on  ocean's  verge ! 
The  Atlantic  round  me  flows, 
Upon  whose  ancient  angry  surge 
No  traveller  finds  repose ! 

The  pilot  comes  !  —  from  yonder  sands 
He  shoves  his  bark,  so  frail, 
And  hurrying  on,  with  busy  hands, 
Employs  both  oar  and  sail. 
Beneath  this  rude  unsettled  sky 
Condemned  to  pass  his  years, 
No  other  shores  delight  his  eye, 
No  foe  alarms  his  fears. 

In  depths  of  woods  his  hut  he  builds, 

Devoted  to  repose, 

And,  blooming,  in  the  barren  wilds 

His  little  garden  grows : 

His  wedded  nymph,  of  sallow  hue, 

No  mingled  colors  grace,  — 

For  her  he  toils,  to  her  is  true, 

The  captive  of  her  face. 

Kind  Nature  here,  to  make  him  blest, 

No  quiet  harbor  planned ; 

And  poverty  —  his  constant  guest * — 

Restrains  the  pirate  band: 

His  hopes  are  all  in  yonder  flock, 

Or  some  few  hives  of  bees, 

Except,  when  bound  for  Ocracock, 

Some  gliding  bark  he  sees. 


HATTERAS,  THE  CAPE.  99 

His  Catharine  then  he  quits  with  grief, 

And  spreads  his  tottering  sails, 

While,  waving  high  her  handkerchief, 

Her  commodore  she  hails  : 

She  grieves,  and  fears  to  see  no  more 

The  sail  that  now  forsakes, 

From  Hatteras'  sands  to  banks  of  Core 

Such  tedious  journeys  takes  ! 

Fond  nymph!  your  sighs  are  heaved  in  vain; 

Restrain  those  idle,  fears  : 

Can  you,  that  should  relieve  his  pain, 

Thus  kill  him  with  your  tears ! 

Can  absence  thus  beget  regard, 

Or  does  it  only  seem  ? 

He  comes  to  meet  a  wandering  bard 

That  steers  for  Ashley's  stream. 

Though  disappointed  in  his  views, 

Not  joyless  will  we  part ; 

Nor  shall  the  God  of  mirth  refuse 

The  balsam  of  the  heart : 

No  niggard  key  shall  lock  up  joy,  — 

I'll  give  him  half  my  store, 

Will  he  but  half  his  skill  employ 

To  guard  us  from  your  shore. 

Should  eastern  gales  once  more  awake, 
No  safety  will  be  here  : 
Alack  !   I  see  the  billows  break, 
Wild  tempests  hovering  near : 
Before  the  bellowing  seas  begin 


100  POEMS  OF  PLACES, 

Their  conflict  with  the  land, 

Go,  pilot,  go,  —  your  Catharine  join, 

That  waits  on  yonder  sand. 

Philip  Treneau. 

CAPE  HATTERAS. 

THE  Wind  King  from  the  North  came  down, 
Nor  stopped  by  river,  mount,  or  town ; 
But,  like  a  boisterous  god  at  play, 
Resistless  bounding  on  his  way, 
He  shook  the  lake  and  tore  the  wood, 
And  flapped  his  wings  in  merry  mood, 
Nor  furled  them,  till  he  spied  afar 
The  white  caps  flash  on  Hatteras  bar, 
Where  fierce  Atlantic  landward  bowls 
O'er  treacherous  sands  and  hidden  shoals. 

He  paused,  then  wreathed  his  horn  of  cloud, 

And  blew  defiance  long  and  loud: 

"  Come  up  !  come  up,  thou  torrid  god, 

That  nil's t  the  Southern  sea ! 
Ho  !  lightning-eyed  and  thunder-shod, 

Come  wrestle  here  with  me! 
As  tossest  thou  the  tangled  cane, 
I  '11  hurl  thee  o'er  the  boiling  main ! 
*  *  * 

"  Come  up !  come  up,  thou  torrid  god, 
Thou  lightning-eyed  and  thunder-shod, 

And  wrestle  here  with  me  !  " 
JT  was  heard  and  answered :  "  Lo  !  I  come 

From  azure  Carribee, 


HATTERAS,  THE  CAPE.  101 

To  drive  thee  cowering  to  tlij;  Isome,  • 

And  melt  its  walls  of  frozen  foam." 

From  every  isle  and  mountain  dell, 

From  plains  of  pathless  chaparral, 

From  tide-built  bars,  where  sea-birds  dwell, 

He  drew  his  lurid  legions  forth, 

And  sprang  to  meet  the  white-plumed  North. 

Can  mortal  tongue  in  song  convey 
The  fury  of  that  fearful  fray  ? 
How  ships  were  splintered  at  a  blow, 
Sails  shivered  into  shreds  of  snow, 
And  seamen  hurled  to  death  below ! 
Two  gods  commingling,  bolt  and  blast, 
The  huge  waves  on  each  other  cast, 
And  bellowed  o'er  the  raging  waste ; 
Then  sped,  like  harnessed  steeds,  afar, 
That  drag  a  shattered  battle-car 
Amid  the  midnight  din  of  war  ! 

False  Hatteras  !  when  the  cyclone  came, 
Thy  waves  leapt  up  with  hoarse  acclaim 
And  ran  and  wrecked  yon  argosy  ! 
Fore'er  nine  sank  !  that  lone  hulk  stands 
Embedded  in  thy  yellow  sands, — 
An  hundred  hearts  in  death  there  stilled, 
And  yet  its  ribs,  with  corpses  filled, 
Are  now  caressed  by  thee  ! 

*  *  * 

Yon  lipless  skull  shall  speak  for  me, 
"  This  is  the  Golgotha  of  the  sea ! 


J.Q2  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  its  keen  hunger  is  the  same 
In  winter's  frost  or  summer's  flame  ! 
When  life  was  young,  adventure  sweet, 
I  came  with  Walter  Raleigh's  fleet, 
But  here  my  scattered  bones  have  lain 
And  bleached  for  ages  by  the  main  ! 
Though  lonely  once,  strange  folk  have  come, 
Till  peopled  is  my  barren  home. 
Enough  are  here.     Oh,  heed  the  cry, 
Ye  white-winged  strangers  sailing  by  ! 
The  bark  that  lingers  on  this  wave 
Will  find  its  smiling  but  a  grave! 
Then,  tardy  mariner,  turn  and  flee, 
A  myriad  wrecks  are  on  thy  lea ! 
With  swelling  sail  and  sloping  mast, 
Accept  kind  Heaven's  propitious  blast ! 
O  ship,  sail  on  !     O  ship,  sail  fast, 
Till,  Golgotha's  quicksands  being  past, 
Thou  gain'st  the  open  sea  at  last ! " 

Josiah  W.  Ilolden, 


THE  WRECK. 

THEY  were  off  Cape  Hatteras 
On  a  dark  night  of  September, — 
Long,  ah !    long  shall  we  remember  ! 
On  the  ship  were  souls  six  hundred 
Ere  the  God  of  Tempests  thundered. 
Long  we  '11  mourn  the  night  —  alas  !  — 
They  were  off  Cape  Hatteras. 


HATTERAS,    THE    CAPE.  103 

O'er  the  billows  came  tlie  storm; 

On  the  sea  were  demons  prowling; 

O'er  the  wave  came  Horror  howling ; 
Looking  on  the  dread  commotion 
Lay  dark  spirits  of  the  ocean; 

In  its  terrors  multiform 

O'er  the  billows  came  the  storm. 

Comes  the  sound  of  boding  doom.  — 
Hark  !   the  spars  and  boom  a-creaking ! 
Hark  !   the  dole  of  victims  shrieking ! 

Louder  comes  the  tempest's  thunder, 

Bursting  rope  and  bar  asunder  ! 
From  the  bellow  and  the  gloom 
Comes  the  sound  of  boding  doom. 

With  the  blare  of  bellowing  storm 
Comes  the  shout  of  seamen  daring : 
" Courage,  brothers!    God  us  sparing, 
We  shall  conquer,  though  the  thunder 
Crushes  our  good  ship  asunder  !  " 
Lightning  showed  each  sailor  form 
Battling  with  the  bellowing  storm. 

Hark,  on  high  !   'tis  God  who  speaks  ! 

Thunders  ruinous  are  booming ; 

Storm-cloud  in  the  lightning  looming; 
Fiercer,  louder,  wilder,  higher, 
Howls  the  darkling  blast  and  nigher.  .  .  . 

From  the  heaven  the  thunder  breaks  — 

Hark,  on  high  !   't  is  God  who  speaks  ! 


104  POEMS  or  PLACES. 

Now  there  comes  a  spirit  prone 
O'er  the  deck  from  prow  to  rudder, 
Making  e'en  the  seamen  shudder !  .  .  . 
Now  the  gallant  Herndon's  speaking 
With  his  trumpet  o'er  the  shrieking: 
"  Now  to  God  and  Him  alone !  " 
Then  there  came  that  spirit  prone. 

Wild  the  answer:  groan  and  prayer! 

Wild  the  answer:   tempest  thundered! 

Wild  the  answer  of  six  hundred ! 

O'er  the  deck  came  billows  breaking 

Vessel  sinking  —  hope  forsaking  ! 

"Look  to  God — for  death  prepare!"  — 

Wild  the  answer:    groan  and  prayer! 

Down  in  caverns  wild  and  dark 
Are  the  daring  victims  lying  — 
Loud  the  land  with  wail  and  sighing. 
With  the  God  of  Tempests  leave  them  — 
•    Jesus,  Saviour,  now  receive  them. 
The  good  ship  lies  grim  and  stark 
Down  in  caverns  wild  and  dark; 

It  is  off  Cape  Hatteras  — 

Sunk  that  dark  night  of  September  — 
Long,  ah  !   long  shall  we  remember. 
There  were  on  the  ship  six  hundred 
Ere  the  God  of  Tempests  thundered! 
Long  we  '11  mourn  the  night  —  alas  !  — 
They  were  off  Cape  Hatteras ! 

T.  H.  M'Naughton. 


ISLE    OF    FOUNTS.  105 


Isle  of  Founts,   Ga. 

ISLE  OF  FOUNTS :  AN  INDIAN  TRADITION, 

"THE  river  St.  Mary  lias  its  source  from  a  vast  lake  or  marsh,  which 
lies  between  Flint  and  Oekmulgee  rivers,  and  occupies  a  space  of  near 
three  hundred  miles  in  circuit.  This  vast  accumulation  of  waters,  in  the 
wet  season,  appears  as  a  lake,  and  contains  some  large  islands  or  knolls  of 
rich  high  land;  one  of  which  the  present  generation  of  the  Creek  Indians 
represent  to  be  a  most  blissful  spot  of  earth.  They  say  it  is  inhabited 
by  a  peculiar  race  of  Indians,  whose  women  are  incomparably  beautiful. 
They  also  tell  you  that  this  terrestrial  paradise  has  been  seen  by  some  of 
their  enterprising  hunters,  when  in  pursuit  of  game ;  but  that  in  their 
endeavors  to  approach  it,  they  were  involved  in  perpetual  labyrinths,  and, 
like  enchanted  land,  still  as  they  imagined  they  had  just  gained  it,  it 
seemed  to  fly  bsfore  them,  alternately  appearing  and  disappearing."  — 
BERTRAM'S  Travels  through  North  and  South  Carolina,  etc. 

SON  of  the  stranger !  wouldst  thou  take 
O'er  you  blue  hills  thy  lonely  way, 
To  reach  the  still  and  shining  lake 

Along  whose  banks  the  west -winds  play  ? 
Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile,  — • 
Oh,  seek  thou  not  the  Fountain  Isle  ! 

Lull  but  the  mighty  serpent  king 

Midst  the  gray  rocks,  his  old  domain; 

Ward  but  the  cougar's  deadly  spring,  — 
Thy  step  that  lake's  green  shore  may  gain; 

And  the  bright  Isle,  when  all  is  passed, 

Shall  vainly  meet  thine  eye  at  last ! 

Yes  !  there,  with  all  its  rainbow  streams, 
Clear  as  within  thine  arrow's  flight, 

The  Isle  of  Founts,  the  isle  of  dreams, 
Floats  on  the  wave  in  golden  light; 


106  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  lovely  will  the  shadows  be 

Of  groves  whose  fruit  is  not  for  thee  ! 

And  breathings  from  their  sunny  flowers, 
Which  are  not  of  the  things  that  die, 

And  singing  voices  from  their  bowers, 
Shall  greet  thee  in  the  purple  sky; 

Soft  voices,  e'en  like  those  that  dwell 

Tar  in  the  green  reed's  hollow  cell. 

Or  hast  thou  heard  the  sounds  that  rise 
From  the  deep  chambers  of  the  earth  ? 

The  wild  and  wondrous  melodies 

To  which  the  ancient  rocks  gave  birth? 

Like  that  sweet  song  of  hidden  caves 

Shall  swell  those  wood  notes  o'er  the  waves. 

The  emerald  waves  !  —  they  take  their  hue 
And  image  from  that  sunbright  shore; 

But  wouldst  thou  launch  thy  light  canoe, 
And  wonldst  thou  ply  thy  rapid  oar, 

Before  thee,  hadst  thou  morning's  speed, 

The  dreamy  land  should  still  recede  ! 

Yet  on  the  breeze  thou  still  wouldst  hear 
The  music  of  its  flowering  shades, 

And  ever  should  the  sound  be  near 

Of  founts  that  ripple  through  its  glades; 

The  sound,  and  sight,  and  flashing  ray 

Of  joyous  waters  in  their  play  ! 

But  woe  for  him  who  sees  them  burst 

With  their  bright  spray  showers  to  the  lake! 


ISLE    OF    FOUNTS.  107 

Earth  has  no  spring  to  quench  the  thirst 
That  semblance  in  his  soul  shall  wake, 
Forever  pouring  through  his  dreams 
The  gush  of  those  untasted  streams  ! 

Bright,  bright,  in  many  a  rocky  urn, 

The  waters  of  our  deserts  lie, 
Yet  at  their  source  his  lip  shall  burn, 

Parched  with  the  fever's  agony  ! 
Prom  the  blue  mountains  to  the  main 
Our  thousand  floods  may  roll  in  vain. 

E'en  thus  our  hunters  came  of  yore 

Back  from  their  long  and  weary  quest ;  — 

Had  they  not  seen  the  untrodden  shore  ? 
And  could  they  midst  our  wilds  find  rest  ? 

The  lightning  of  their  glance  was  fled, 

They  dwelt  amongst  us  as  the  dead  1 

They  lay  beside  our  glittering  rills 
With  visions  in  their  darkened  eye ; 

Their  joy  was  not  amidst  the  hills 
Where  elk  and  deer  before  us  fly: 

Their  spears  upon  the  cedar  hung, 

Their  javelins  to  the  wind  were  flung. 

They  bent  no  more  the  forest  bow, 

They  armed  not  with  the  warrior  band, 

The  moons  waned  o'er  them  dim  and  slow,  — 
They  left  us  for  the  spirits'  land! 

Beneath  our  pines  yon  greensward  heap 

Shows  where  the  restless  found  their  sleep. 


108  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Son  of  the  stranger  !  if  at  eve 
Silence  be  midst  us  in  thy  place, 

Yet  go  not  where  the  mighty  leave 
The  strength  of  battle  and  of  chase ! 

Let  no  vain  dreams  thy  heart  beguile  — 

Oh,  seek  thou  not  the  Fountain  Isle  ! 

Felicia  Ilemans. 


Jamestown,    Va. 

ODE  TO  JAMESTOWN. 

OLD  cradle  of  an  infant  world, 
In  which  a  nestling  empire  lay, 
Struggling  awhile,  ere  she  unfurled 

Her  gallant  wing  and  soared  away  ; 
All  hail !  thou  birthplace  of  the  glowing  west, 
Thou  seem'st  the  towering  eagle's  ruined  nest! 

What  solemn  recollections  throng, 

What  touching  visions  rise, 
As,  wandering  these  old  stones  among, 

I  backward  turn  mine  eyes, 
And  see  the  shadows  of  the  dead  flit  round, 
Like  spirits,  when  the  last  dread  trump  shall  sound. 

The  wonders  of  an  age  combined 

In  one  short  moment  memory  supplies ; 

They  throng  upon  my  wakened  mind, 
As  time's  dark  curtains  rise. 


JAMESTOWN.  109 

The  volume  of  a  hundred  buried  years, 
Condensed  in  one  bright  sheet,  appears. 

I  hear  the  angry  ocean  rave, 
I  see  the  lonely  little  bark 
Scudding  along  the  crested  wave, 
Freighted  like  old  Noah's  ark, 
As  o'er  the  drowned  earth  't  was  hurled, 
With  the  forefathers  of  another  world. 

I  see  a  train  of  exiles  stand, 
Amid  the  desert,  desolate, 
The-  fathers  of  my  native  land, 
The  daring  pioneers  of  fate, 
Who  braved  the  perils  of  the  sea  and  earth, 
And'^gave  a  boundless  empire  birth. 

I  see  the  sovereign  Indian  range 

His  woodland  empire,  free  as  air; 
I  see  the  gloomy  forest  change, 
The  shadowy  earth  laid  bare ; 

And,  where  the  red  man  chased  the  bounding  deer, 
The  smiling  labors  of  the  white  appear. 

I  see  the  haughty  warrior  gaze 

In  wonder  or  in  scorn, 
As  the  pale  faces  sweat  to  raise 

Their  scanty  fields  of  corn, 
While  he,  the  monarch  of  the  boundless  wood, 
By  sport,  or  hair-brained  rapine,  wins  his  food. 

A  moment,  and  the  pageant's  gone; 
The  red  men  are  no  more; 


110  POEMS   OF    PLACES. 

The  pale-faced  strangers  stand  alone 

Upon  the  river's  shore; 

And  the  proud  wood-king,  who  their  arts  disdained, 
Finds  but  a  bloody  grave  where  once  he  reigned. 

The  forest  reels  beneath  the  stroke 

•*• 

Of  sturdy  woodman's  axe  ; 
The  earth  receives  the  white  man's  yoke, 

And  pays  her  willing  tax 

Of  fruits,  and  flowers,  and  golden  harvest  fields, 
And  all  that  nature  to  blithe  labor  yields. 

Then  growing  hamlets  rear  their  heads, 

And  gathering  crowds  expand, 
Tar  as  my  fancy's  vision  spreads, 

O'er  many  a  boundless  land, 
Till  what  was  once  a  world  of  savage  strife 
Teems  with  the  richest  gifts  of  social  life. 

Empire  to  empire  swift  succeeds, 

Each  happy,  great,  and  free; 
One  empire  still  another  breeds, 

A  giant  progeny. 

Destined  their  daring  race  to  run, 
Each  to  the  regions  of  yon  setting  sun. 

Then,  as  I  turn  my  thoughts  to  trace 

The  fount  whence  these  rich  waters  sprung, 
I  glance  towards  this  lonely  place, 

And  find  it,  these  fude  stones  among. 
Here  rest  the  sires  of  millions,  sleeping  round, 
The  Argonauts,  the  golden  fleece  that  found. 


JAMESTOWN.  Ill 

Their  names  have  been  forgotten  long; 
The  stone,  but  not  a  word,  remains; 
They  cannot  live  in  deathless  song, 

Nor  breathe  in  pious"*  strains.  - 
Yet  this  sublime  obscurity  to  me 
More  touching  is  than  poet's  rhapsody. 

They  live  in  millions  that  now  breathe; 

They  live  in  millions  yet  unborn, 
And  pious  gratitude  shall  wreathe 

As  bright  a  crown  as  ere  was  worn, 
And  hang  it  on  the  green-leaved  bough, 
That  whispers  to  the  nameless  dead  below. 

No  one  that  inspiration  drinks; 

No  one  that  loves  his  native  land; 
No  one  that  reasons,  feels,  or  thinks, 

Can  mid  these  lonely  ruins  stand, 
Without  a  moistened  eye,  a  grateful  tear 
Of  reverent  gratitude  to  those  that  moulder  here. 

The  mighty  shade  now  hovers  round, — 

Of  him  whose  strange,  yet  bright  career 
Is  written  on  this"  sacred  ground 

In  letters  that  no  time  shall  sere ; 
Who  in  the  Old  World  smote  the  turbaned  crew, 
And  founded  Christian  empires  in  the  New. 

And  she  !  the  glorious  Indian  maid, 

The  tutelary  of  this  land, 
The  angel  of  the  woodland  shade, 

The  miracle  of  God's  own  hand, 


112  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Who  joined  man's  heart  to  woman's  softest  grace, 
And  thrice  redeemed  the  scourges  of  her  race. 

Sister  of  charity  and  love, 

Whose  life-blood  was  soft  Pity's  tide, 
Dear  goddess  of  the  sylvan  grove, 

Flower  of  the  forest,  nature's  pride, 
He  is  no  man  who  does  not  bend  the  knee, 
And  she  no  woman  who  is  not  like  thee  ! 

Jamestown,  and  Plymouth's  hallowed  rock 

To  me  shall  ever  sacred  be,  — 
I  care  not  who  my  themes  may  mock, 

Or  sneer  at  them  and  me. 
I  envy  not  the  brute  who  here  can  stand 
Without  a  thrill  for  his  own  native  land. 

And  if  the  recreant  crawl  her  earth, 

Or  breathe  Virginia's  air, 
Or  in  New  England  claim  his  birth, 

From  the  old  pilgrims  there, 
He  is  a  bastard,  if  he  dare  to  mock 
Old  Jamestown's  shrine  or  Plymouth's  famous  rock. 

James  Kirfce  Pauldmg. 


JOHN  SMITH'S  APPROACH  TO  JAMESTOWN. 

I  PAUSE  not  now  to  speak  of  Raleigh's  dreams, 
Though  they  might  give  a  loftier  bard  fit  themes 
I  pause  not  now  to  tell  of  Ocracock, 
Where  Saxon  spray  broke  on  the  red-brown  rock; 


JAMESTOWN.  113 

Nor  of  my  native  river  "which  glides  down 

Through  scenes  where  rose  a  happy  Indian  town; 

But,  leaving  these  and  Chesapeake's  broad  bay, 

Resume  my  story  in  the  month  of  May, 

Where  England's  cross  —  St.  George's  ensign — flowed 

Where  ne'er  before  emblazoned  banner  glowed ; 

Where  English  breasts  throbbed  fast  as  English  eyes 

Looked  o'er  the  waters  with  a  glad  surprise,  — 

Looked  gladly  out  upon  the  varied  scene 

Where  stretched  the  woods  in  all  their  pomp  of  green ; 

Flinging  great  shadows,  beautiful  and  vast 

As  e'er  upon  Arcadian  lake  were  cast. 

Turn  where  they  would,  in  what  direction  rove, 

They  found  some  bay,  or  wild,  romantic  cove, 

On  which  they  coasted  through  those  forests  dim, 

Wherein  they  heard  the  never-ceasing  hymn 

That  swelled  from  all  the  tall,  majestic  pines, — 

Fit  choristers  of  Nature's  sylvan  shrines. 

For  though  no  priest  their  solitudes  had  trod, 

The  trees  were  vocal  in  their  praise  of  God. 

And  then,  when,  capes  and  jutting  headlands  past, 

The  sails  were  furled  against  each  idle  mast, 

They  saw  the  sunset  in  its  pomp  descend, 

And  sky  and  water  gloriously  contend 

For  gorgcousness  of  colors,  red  and  gold, 

And  tints  of  amethyst  together  rolled, 

Making  a  scene  of  splendor  and  of  rest 

As  vanquished  day  lit  camp-fires  in  the  West. 

And  when  the  light  grew  faint  on  wave  and  strand, 

New  beauties  woke  in  this  enchanted  land, 


114  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

For  through  heaven's  lattice-work  of  crimson  bars 
Like  angels  looked  the  bright  eternal  stars, 
And  then,  when  gathered  tints  of  purplish  brown, 
A  golden  sickle,  reaping  darkness  down, 
The  new  mopjo.  shone  above  the  lofty  trees, v 
Which  made:  low  music  in  the  evening  breeze,  — 
The  breeze  which  floating  blandly  from  the  shore 
The  perfumed  breath  of  flowering  jasmine  bore; 
Tor  smiling  Spring  had  kissed  its  clustering  vines, 
And  breathed  her  fragrance  on  the  lofty  pines. 

James  Barron  Hope. 


Kekoughton,  the  Ewer,  Fa. 

SUNSET  ON  THE  KEKOUGHTON  RIVER. 

SEE  the  scattered  clouds  of  evening, 
Lattice  bars  across  the  blue, — 
Where  the  moon  in  pallid  beauty 
Like  an  angel  gazes  through! 

Over  all  the  winding  river, 
By  the  fading  sunset  kissed, 

Slowly  rises  up  the  vapor 
In  a  cloud  of  ghostly  mist. 

While  the  eve  is  slowly  turning 
Its  last  grains  of  golden  sand, 

What  a  holy  quiet  hovers 
Over  all  the  drowsy  land! 


KEKOUGHTON,    THE    RIYER.  115 

There  is  now  the  spell  of  silence, 

Of  a  silence  calm  and  deep, 
Over  all  the  placid  waters 

Where  the  pale  mist  seems  asleep. 

And  the  vessels,  slowly  gliding 

Down  the  river  to  the  bay, 
Show  on  spreading  sheets  of  canvas 

Tints  that  change  from  red  to  gray. 

All  is  quiet,  save  the  murmur 

Of  the  tide  upon  the  bar : 
See  each  little  breaker  playing 

With  the  image  of  a  star ! 

And  't  is  thus  that  human  creatures, 
Bowed  with  age,  or  fresh  in  youth, 

Give  back  brokenly  the  image 
Of  each  grand,  celestial  truth. 

Now  the  brooding  silence  deepens, 

And  the  scene  is  one  of  rest, 
As  the  wrecked  day  drifts  down  grandly 

To  be  stranded  in  the  West, 

On  yon  rugged  coast  of  Cloudland 

High  above  the  village  spire, 
On  its  mighty,  purple  headlands 

And  its  crags  all  tipped  with  fire. 

James  Barron  Hope. 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Kitty  Hawk,  N.  C. 

THE  WRECK  OF  THE  HURON. 

ROCKS  and  shoals  of  the  sea, 
Tide  of  the  under-waves, 
Surf  of  the  moaning  lee, 

Where  the  hurricane  raves, — 
Green  steeps  that  are  storm-rent  and  sterile, 
Wild-sown  with  the  spoils  of  the  shore, — 
The  night  has  passed  on  and  the  peril, 
And  the  mariners  struggle  no  more. 

Sing  for  the  brave  ship  lost: 
Chant  for  the  lives  that  lie 
In  unknown  haven  tossed, 

Under  a  sobbing  sky. 
Sing  requiem,  praise  to  the  valor 

Unshaken  though  Fate  held  the  scourge; 
But  dawnlight  unveils  the  stern  pallor 
Of  faces  swept  cold  by  the  surge. 

Wreck  on  the  sullen  bar, 

Never  in  battle  a-sea, 
Iron-girted  for  war, 

Challenge  shall  echo  from  thee : 
Storm,  darkness,  and  depths  are  thy  foemen, 

And  each  hero  stood  to  his  post; 
But  master  and  sailor  and  yeomen, 

Their  names  shall  give  fame  to  the  coast. 


MALVERX    HILL.  117 

Gulfs  and  caves  of  the  deep, 

Aged  seas  without  pulse, 
Let  them  sleep  well  who  sleep 

Lapped  in  sea-weed  and  dulse; 
They  miss  not  the  legend  engraven, 
The  delicate  springing  of  llowers, 
They  miss,  who,  by  inland  and  haven, 
Sit  still  through  the  sorrowful  hours  ! 

Edith  M.  Thomas. 


Malvern  Hill,    Va. 

A  MESSAGE. 

TTTAS  there  ever  message  sweeter 

'  '       Than  that  one  from  Malvern  Hill, 
From  a  grim  old  fellow,  —  you  remember  ? 

Dying  in  the  dark  at  Malvern  Hill. 
With  his  rough  face  turned  a  little, 

On  a  heap  of  scarlet  sand, 
They  found  him,  just  within  the  thicket, 

With  a  picture  in  his  hand,  — 

With  a  stained  and  crumpled  picture 

Of  a  woman's  aged  face ; 
Yet  there  seemed  to  leap  a  wild  entreaty, 

Young  and  living  —  tender — from  the  face 
When  they  flashed  the  lantern  on  it, 

Gilding  all  the  purple  shade, 


118  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  stooped  to  raise  him  softly,  — 
"That's  my  mother,  sir,"  he  said. 

"Tell  her"  —but  he  wandered,  slipping 

Into  tangled  words  and  cries,  — 
Something  about  Mac  and  Hooker, 

Something  dropping  through  the  cries 
About  the  kitten  by  the  fire, 

And  mother's  cranberry-pies ;  and  there 
The  words  fell,  and  an  utter 

Silence  brooded  in  the  air. 

Just  as  he  was  drifting  from  them, 

Out  into  the  dark,  alone, 
(Poor  old  mother,  waiting  for  your  message, 

Waiting  with  the  kitten,  all  alone  !) 
Through  the  hush  his  voice  broke,  —  "  Tell  her — 

Thank  you,  Doctor  —  when  you  can, 
Tell  her  that  I  kissed  her  picture, 

And  wished  I  'd  been  a  better  man." 

Ah,  I  wonder  if  the  red  feet 

Of  departed  battle-diours 
May  not  leave  for  us  their  searching 

Message  from  those  distant  hours. 
Sisters,  daughters,  mothers,  think  you, 

Would  your  heroes  now  or  then, 
Dying,  kiss  your  pictured  faces, 

Wishing  they  'd  been  better  men  ? 

Elizabeth  Stuart  Phelps. 


MANASSAS.  119 


Manassas,  Va. 

MAY-DAY  AT  MANASSAS. 

I860. 

WAS  far  in  May,  a  heavenly  day,  — 
The  skies  were  bright,  the  fields  were  gay 
With  blossoms,  butterflies,  and  bees, 
And  singing  birds  iii  the  cherry-trees ; 
And  the  air  from  gardens,  woods,  and  bowers 
Was  sweet  with  the  breath  of  vernal  flowers; 
And  the  waving  wheat-fields  seemed  to  me 
The  gleaming  waves  of  a  summer  sea, 

That  May-day  at  Manassas. 

And  flocks  and  herds,  in  pastures  green, 
Enlivened  far  and  wide  the  scene ; 
And  here  and  there,  on  hill  and  plain, 
Stood  clustering  stacks  of  hay  and  grain; 
And  near  the  old-time  mansion  played 
Its  pickaninnies  in  the  shade, 
While  the  "field-hand"  slave  forgot  his  wrongs 
Of  bondage,  in  his  cheerful  songs, 

That  May-day  at  Manassas. 


1862. 

YET  once  again  I  passed  that  way, 
In  the  morning  of  another  May ; 
But  what  an  awful  change  was  there, 


120  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Affecting  even  tlie  light  and  air  ! 

Are  these  realities  ?     They  seem 

The  horrors  of  a  hideous  dream. 

I  looked  appalled  and  in  surprise 

On  the  blackened  earth  and  smoky  skies, 

That  May-day  at  Manassas. 

No  fields  of  wheat  the  picture  graced, — 

Their  very  landmarks  were  effaced; 

No  flocks  or  herds  or  stacks  of  grain 

Were  visible  on  hill  or  plain ; 

But  pits,  redoubts,  and  many  a  mound, 

Where  the  bones  of  men  in  the  shallow  ground 

Lay  buried  from  the  battle's  toil, 

Or  partly  whitening  on  the  soil, 

That  May-day  at  Manassas. 
*  *  * 

George  E,  Wallace. 


Mexico,  the  Gulf. 

SEA-WEEDS. 

FRIEND  of  the  thoughtful  mind  and  gentle  heart, 
Beneath  the  citron-tree  — 
Deep  calling  to  my  soul's  profounder  deep, — 
I  hear  the  Mexique  Sea. 

White,  through  the  night,  the  spectral  surf  rides  in, 

Along  the  spsctral  sands, 
And  all  the  air  vibrates,  as  if  from  harps 

Touched  by  phantasmal  hands. 


MEXICO,    THE    GULF.  121 

Bright  in  the  moon  the  red  pomegranate-flowers 

Lean  to  the  yucca's  bells, 
While  with  her  chrism  of  dew  sad  Midnight  fills. 

The  milk-white  asphodels. 

Watching  all  night  —  as  I  have  done  before  — 

I  count  the  stars  that  set, 
Each  writing  on  my  soul  some  memory  deep 

Of  pleasure  or  regret; 

Till,  wild  with  heart-break,  toward  the  east  I  turn, 

Waiting  for  dawn  of  day; 
And  chanting  sea,  and  asphodel,  and  star 

Are  faded,  all,  away. 

Only  within  my  trembling,  trembling  hands  — 

Brought  unto  me  by  thce  — 
I  clasp  these  beautiful  and  fragile  things, 

Bright  sea-weeds  from  the  sea. 

Fair  bloom  the  flowers  beneath  these  northern  skies, 

Pure  shine  the  stars  by  night, 
And  grandly  sing  the  grand  Atlantic  waves 

In  thunder-throated  might : 

Yet,  as  the  sea-shell  in  her  chambers  keeps 

The  murmur  of  the  sea, 
So  the  deep  echoing  memories  of  my  home 

Will  not  depart  from  me. 

Prone  on  the  page  they  lie,  these  gentle  things, 
As  I  have  seen  them  cast 


122  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Like  a  drowned  woman's  hair  along  the  sands 
When  storms  were  overpast; 

Prone,  like  mine  own  affections,  cast  ashore 

In  battle's  storm  and  blight. 

Would  they  could  die,  like  sea-weed !     Bear  with  me, 
But  I  must  weep  to-night. 
*  *  * 

Annie  Chamber  s-Ketchum. 


THE  BUEIAL  OF  THE  DANE, 

BLUE  gulf  all  around  us, 
Blue  sky  overhead, —  . 
Muster  all  on  the  quarter, 
We  must  bury  the  dead ! 

It  is  but  a  Danish  sailor, 

Rugged  of  front  and  form; 
A  common  son  of  the  forecastle, 

Grizzled  with  sun  and  storm. 

His  name  and  the  strand  he  hailed  from 
We  know,  —  and  there 's  nothing  more 

But  perhaps  his  mother  is  waiting 
Iii  the  lonely  island  of  Eohr. 

Still,  as  he  lay  there  dying, 

Reason  drifting  awreck, 
"'Tis  my  watch,"  he  would  mutter, 

"I  must  go  upon  deck!" 


MEXICO,    THE    GULF.  123 

Ay,  on  deck,  —  by  the  foremast !  — 
But  watch  and  lookout  are  done; 

The  Union-Jack  laid  o'er  him, 
How  quiet  he  lies  in  the  sun! 

Slow  the  ponderous  engine, 

Stay  the  hurrying  shaft! 
Let  the  roll  of  the  ocean 

Cradle  our  giant  craft,  — 
Gather  around  the  grating, 

Carry  your  messmate  aft ! 

Stand  in  order,  and  listen 

To  the  holiest  page  of  prayer ! 
Let  every  foot  be  quiet, 

Every  head  be  bare,  — 
The  soft  trade-wind  is  lifting 

A  hundred  locks  of  hair. 

Our  captain  reads  the  service 

(A  little  spray  on  his  cheeks), 
The  grand  old  words  of  burial, 

And  the  trust  a  true  heart  seeks, — 
"We  therefore  commit  his  body 

To  the  deep,"  —  and,  as  he  speaks, 

Launched  from  the  weather-railing, 

Swift  as  the  eye  can  mark, 
The  ghastly,  shotted  hammock 

Plunges,  away  from  the  shark, 
Down,  a  thousand  fathoms, 

Down  into  the  dark ! 


124  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  thousand  summers  and  winters 

The  stormy  Gulf  shall  roll 
High  o'er  his  canvas  coffin,  — 

But,  silence  to  doubt  and  dole ! 
There's  a  quiet  harbor  somewhere 

For  the  poor  aweary  soul. 

Tree  the  fettered  engine, 

Speed  the  tireless  shaft! 
Loose  to'gallant  and  topsail, 

The  breeze  is  fair  abaft ! 

Blue  sea  all  around  us, 

Blue  sky  bright  o'crhead, — 
Every  man  to  his  duty  ! 

We  have  buried  our  dead. 

Henry  Howard  Brownell. 


Mobile,  the  Bay,  Ala. 

THE  BAY-FIGHT, 


days  through  sapphire  seas  we  sailed, 
-L   The  steady  Trade  blew  strong  and  free, 
The  Northern  Light  his  banners  paled, 
The  Ocean  Stream  our  channels  wet, 

We  rounded  low  Canaveral's  lee, 
And  passed  the  isles  of  emerald  set 

In  blue  Bahamas'  turquoise  sea. 


MOBILE,    THE    BAY.  125 

By  reef  and  shoal  obscurely  mapped, 
And  hauntings  of  the  gray  sea-wolf, 

The  palmy  Western  Key  lay  lapped 
In  the  warm  washing  of  the  Gulf. 

But  weary  to  the  hearts  of  all 
The  burning  glare,  the  barren  reach 
Of  Santa  Rosa's  withered  beach, 

And  Pensacola's  ruined  wall. 

And  weary  was  the  long  patrol, 
The  thousand  miles  of  shapeless  strand, 

From  Brazos  to  San  Bias  that  roll 
Their  drifting  dunes  of  desert  sand. 

Yet,  coastwise  as  we  cruised  or  lay, 

The  land-breeze  still  at  nightfall  bore, 
By  beach  and  fortress-guarded  bay, 

Sweet  odors  from  the  enemy's  shore, 

i 
Fresh  from  the  forest  solitudes, 

Unchallenged  of  his  sentry  lines,  — 
The  bursting  of  his  cypress  buds, 

And  the  warm  fragrance  of  his  pines. 

Ah,  never  braver  bark  and  crew, 

Nor  bolder  flag  a  foe  to  dare. 
Had  left  a  wake  on  ocean  blue 

Since  Lion-Heart  sailed  Trenc-le-mer ! 

But  little  gain  by  that  dark  ground 
Was  ours,  save,  sometime,  freer  breath 

For  friend  or  brother  strangely  found, 
'Scaped  from  the  drear  domain  of  death. 


126  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  little  venture  for  the  bold, 
Or  laurel  for  our  valiant  chief, 
Save  some  blockaded  British  thief, 

Full  fraught  with  murder  in  his  hold, 

Caught  unawares  at  ebb  or  flood; 
Or  dull  bombardment,  day  by  day, 
With  fort  and  earthwork,  far  away, 

Low  couched  in  sullen  leagues  of  mud. 

A  weary  time,  —  but  to  the  strong 

The  day  at  last,  as  ever,  came ; 
And  the  volcano,  laid  so  long, 

Leaped  forth  in  thunder  and  in  flame! 

*  *  * 

"  Man  your  starboard  battery  ! " 

Kimberly  shouted ; 
The  ship,  with  her  hearts  of  oak, 
Was  going,  mid  roar  and  smoke, 
On  to  victory  ! 

None  of  us  doubted  — 

No,  not  our  dying  — 

Farragut's  flag  was  flying ! 

Gaines  growled  low  on  our  left, 

Morgan  roared  on  our  right  — 
Before  us,  gloomy  and  fell, 
With  breath  like  the  fume  of  hell, 
Lay  the  Dragon  of  iron  shell, 
Driven  at  last  to  the  fight ! 

Ha,  old  ship  !  do  they  thrill, 
The  brave  two  hundred  scars 


FARRAGUT.    See  page  127 


MOBILE,    THE    BAY.  127 

You  got  iii  the  River-Wars? 

That  were  leeched  with  clamorous  skill 

(Surgery  savage  and  hard), 
Splintered  with  bolt  and  beam, 
Probed  in  scarfing  and  seam, 

Rudely  linted  and  tarred 
With  oakum  and  boiling  pitch, 
And  sutured  with  splice  and  hitch, 

At  the  Brooklyn  Navy- Yard  ! 

Our  lofty  spars  were  down, 
To  bide  the  battle's  frown 
(Wont  of  old  renown),  — 
But  every  ship  was  dressed 
In  her  bravest  and  her  best, 

As  if  for  a  July  day ; 
Sixty  flags  and  three, 

As  we  floated  up  the  bay, — 
Every  peak  and  masthead  flew 
The  brave  Red,  White,  and  Blue,  — 

We  were  eighteen  ships  that  day. 

With  hawsers  strong  and  taut, 
The  weaker  lashed  to  port, 

On  we  sailed,  two  by  two,  — 
That  if  either  a  bolt  should  feel 
Crash  through  caldron  or  wheel, 
Fin  of  bronze  or  sinew  of  steel, 

Her  mate  might  bear  her  through. 

Steadily  nearing  the  head, 
The  great  flag-ship  led, — 


128  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Grandest  of  sights  ! 
On  her  lofty  mizzen  flew 
Our  leader's  dauntless  blue, 

That  had  waved  o'er  twenty  fights. 
So  we  went,  with  the  iirst  of  the  tide, 

Slowly,  mid  the  roar 

Of  the  rebel  guns  ashore, 
And  the  thunder  of  each  full  broadside. 

Ah,  how  poor  the  prate 
Of  statute  and  of  state, 

We  once  held  with  these  fellows: 
Here,  on  the  flood's  pale-green, 

Hark  how  he  bellows,  — 

Each  bluff  old  sea-lawyer  ! 
Talk  to  them,  Dahlgren, 

Parrott,  and  Sawyer! 

On  in  the  whirling  shade 

Of  the  cannon's  sulphury  breath, 
We  drew  to  the  line  of  death 

That  our  devilish  foe  had  laid  ; 

Meshed  in  a  horrible  net, 
And  baited  villanous  well, 

Right  in  our  path  were  set 
Three  hundred  traps  of  hell ! 

And  there,  O  sight  forlorn  ! 

There,  while  the  cannon 
Hurtled  and  thundered,  — 

(Ah,  what  ill  raven 
Happed  o'er  the  ship  that  morn !) 


MOBILE,    THE    BAY.  129 

Caught  by  tlie  under-death, 
In  the  drawing  of  a  breath, 
Down  went  dauntless  Craven, 
He  and  his  hundred ! 

A  moment  we  saw  her  turret, 

A  little  heel  she  gave, 
And  a  thin  white  spray  went  o'er  her, 

Like  the  crest  of  a  breaking  wave; 
In  that  great  iron  coffin, 

The  channel  for  their  grave, 

The  fort  their  monument 
(Seen  afar  in  the  offing), 
Ten  fathom  deep  lie  Craven 

And  the  bravest  of  our  brave. 

Then,  in  that  deadly  track, 
A  little  the  ships  held  back, 

Closing  up  in  their  stations: 
There  are  minutes  that  fix  the  fate 

Of  battles  and  of  nations 

(Christening  the  generations), 
When  valor  were  all  too  late, 

If  a  moment's  doubt  be  harbored; 
From  the  maintop,  bold  and  brief, 
Came  the  word  of  our  grand  old  Chief, — 
"Go  on!"  —  'twas  all  lie  said; 

Our  helm  was  put  to  the  starboard, 
And  the  Hartford  passed  ahead. 

Ahead  lay  ths  Tennessee,  — 
On  our  starboard  bow  he  lay, 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

With  his  mail-clad  consorts  three 

(The  rest  had  run  up  the  Bay),  — 
There  he  was,  belching  flame  from  his  bow, 
And  the  steam  from  his  throat's  abyss 
Was  a  Dragon's  maddened  hiss,  — 
In  sooth  a  most  cursed  craft !  — 
In  a  sullen  ring,  at  bay, 
By  the  Middle  Ground  they  lay, 
Raking  us,  fore  and  aft. 

Trust  me,  our  berth  was  hot, 

Ah,  wickedly  well  they  shot; 
How  their  death-bolts  howled  and  stung  ! 

And  the  water-batteries  played 

With  their  deadly  cannonade 
Till  the  air  around  us  rung ; 
So  the  battle  raged  and  roared  — 
Ah,  had  you  been  aboard 

To  have  seen  the  fight  we  made  ! 
How  they  leaped,  the  tongues  of  flame, 

From  the  cannon's  fiery  lip! 
How  the  broadsides,  deck  and  frame, 

Shook  the  great  ship! 

And  how  the  enemy's  shell 

Came  crashing,  heavy  and  oft, 

Clouds  of  splinters  flying  aloft 
And  falling  in  oaken  showers : 

But  ah,  the  pluck  of  the  crew  ! 
Had  you  stood  on  that  deck  of  ours, 

You  had  seen  what  men  may  do. 


MOBILE,    THE    BAY.  131 

Still,  as  the  fray  grew  louder, 

Boldly  they  worked  and  well,  — 
Steadily  came  the  powder, 

Steadily  came  the  shell. 
And  if  tackle  or  truck  found  hurt, 

Quickly  they  cleared  the  wreck ; 
And  the  dead  were  laid  to  port, 

All  a-row,  on  our  deck. 

Never  a  nerve  that  failed, 

Never  a  cheek  that  paled, 
Not  a  tinge  of  gloom  or  pallor  : 

There  was  bold  Kentucky's  grit, 
And  the  old  Virginian  valor, 

And  the  daring  Yankee  wit. 

There  were  blue  eyes  from  turfy  Shannon, 
There  were  black  orbs  from  palmy  Niger,  — 

But  there  alongside  the  cannon, 
Each  man  fought  like  a  tiger ! 

A  little,  once,  it  looked  ill, 

Our  consort  began  to  bum ; 
They  quenched  the  flames  with  a  will, 
But  our  men  were  falling  still, 

And  still  the  fleet  was  astern. 

Right  abreast  of  the  Tort 

In  an  awful  shroud  they  lay, 

Broadsides  thundering  away, 
And  lightning  from  every  port,  — 

Scene  of  glory  and  dread ! 


132  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  storm-cloud  all  aglow 
With  flashes  of  fiery  red ; 

The  thunder  raging  below, 

And  the  forest  of  flags  o'erhead ! 

So  grand  the  hurly  and  roar, 

So  fiercely  their  broadsides  blazed, 

The  regiments  fighting  ashore 
Forgot  to  fire  as  they  gazed. 

There,  to  silence  the  foe, 
Moving  grimly  and  slow, 

They  loomed  in  that  deadly  wreath, 
Where  the  darkest  batteries  frowned, 
Death  in  the  air  all  round, 

And  the  black  torpedoes  beneath! 

And  now,  as  we  looked  ahead, 

All  for'ard,  the  long  white  deck 
Was  growing  a  strange  dull  red ; 
But  soon,  as  once  and  agen 

Tore  and  aft  we  sped 

(The  firing  to  guide  or  check), 

You  could  hardly  choose  but  tread 
On  the  ghastly  human  wreck, 

(Dreadful  gobbet  and  shred 

That  a  minute  ago  were  men  !) 

Red,  from  mainmast  to  bitts  ! 

Red,  on  bulwark  and  wale  ! 
Red,  by  combing  and  hatch  ! 

Red,  o'er  netting  and  rail ! 


MOBILE,    THE    BAY.  133 

And  ever,  with  steady  coii, 

The  ship  forged  slowly  by; 
And  ever  the  crew  fought  on, 

And  their  cheers  rang  loud  and  high. 

Grand  was  the  sight  to  see 

How  by  their  guns  they  stood, 
Right  in  front  of  our  dead 
Fighting  square  abreast  — 
Each  brawny  arm  and  chest 
All  spotted  with  black  and  red,  — 
Chrism  of  fire  and  blood  ! 

Worth  our  watch,  dull  and  sterile, 

Worth  all  the  weary  time ; 
Worth  the  woe  and  the  peril, 

To  stand  in  that  strait  sublime ! 

Tear  ?     A  forgotten  form  ! 

Death?     A  dream  of  the  eyes! 
We  were  atoms  in  God's  great  storm 

That  roared  through  the  angry  skies. 

One  only  doubt  was  ours, 

One  only  dread  we  knew : 
Could  the  day  that  dawned  so  well 
Go  down  for  the  Darker  Powers? 

Would  the  fleet  get  through? 
And  ever  the  shot  and  shell 
Came  with  the  howl  of  hell, 
The  splinter-clouds  rose  and  fell, 

And  the  long  line  of  corpses  grew: 

Would  the  fleet  win  through? 


134  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

They  are  men  that  never  will  fail, 

(How  aforetime  they  've  fought !) 
But  Murder  may  yet  prevail,  — 

They  may  sink  as  Craven  sank. 
Therewith  one  hard  fierce  thought, 
Burning  on  heart  and  lip, 
Ran  like  fire  through  the  ship : 
Fight  her,  to  the  last  plank  ! 

A  dimmer  Renown  might  strike 
If  Death  lay  square  alongside ; 

But  the  Old  Flag  has  no  like, 
She  must  fight,  whatever  betide: 

When  the  war  is  a  tale  of  old, 

And  this  day's  story  is  told, 

They  shall  hear  how  the  Hartford  died ! 

But  as  we  ranged  ahead, 

And  the  leading  ships  worked  in, 
Losing  their  hope  to  win, 

The  enemy  turned  and  fled : 

And  one  seeks  a  shallow  reach, 
And  another,  winged  in  her  flight, 
Our  mate,  brave  Jouett,  brings  in; 
And  one,  all  torn  in  the  light, 

Runs  for  a  wreck  on  the  beach, 

Where  her  flames  soon  fire  the  night. 

And  the  Ram,  —  when  well  up  the  Bay, 
And  we  looked  that  our  stems  should  meet 

(He  had  us  fair  for  a  prey), 

Shifting  his  helm  midway, 

Sheered  off,  and  ran  for  the  fleet ; 


MOBILE,    THE    BAY.  135 

There,  without  skulking  or  sham, 

He  fought  them,  gun  for  gun, 
And  ever  lie  sought  to  ram, 

But  could  finish  never  a  one. 

From  the  first  of  the  iron  shower  * 

Till  we  sent  our  parting  shell, 
}T  was  just  one  savage  hour 

Of  the  roar  and  the  rage  of  hell. 
With  the  lessening  smoke  and  thunder, 

Our  glasses  around  we  aim,  — 
What  is  that  burning  yonder  ? 

Our  Philippi  —  aground  and  in  flame  ! 

Below,  'twas  still  all  a-roar, 
As  the  ships  went  by  the  shore, 

But  the  fire  of  the  fort  had  slacked 
(So  fierce  their  volleys  had  been) ; 
And  now,  with  a  mighty  din, 
The  whole  fleet  came  grandly  in, 

Though  sorely  battered  and  wracked. 

So,  up  the  Bay  we  ran, 

The  Flag  to  port  and  ahead, 
And  a  pitying  rain  began 

To  wash  the  lips  of  our  dead. 
A  league  from  the  fort  we  lay, 

And  deemed  that  the  end  must  lag ; 
When  lo  !  looking  down  the  Bay, 

There  flaunted  the  Rebel  Rag: 
The  Ram  is  again  under  way, 

And  heading  dead  for  the  Flag  ! 


136  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Steering  up  with  the  stream, 

Boldly  his  course  he  lay, 
Though  the  fleet  all  answered  his  fire, 
And,  as  he  still  drew  nigher, 
Ever  on  bow  and  beam 

Our  Monitors  pounded  away, — 
How  the  Chickasaw  hammered  away  ! 

Quickly  breasting  the  wave, 

Eager  the  prize  to  Aviu, 
First  of  us  all  the  brave 

Monongahela  went  in, 
Under  full  head  of  steam ; 
Twice  she  struck  him  abeam, 
Till  her  stem  was  a  sorry  work; 

(She  might  have  run  on  a  crag  !) 
The  Lackawanna  hit  fair ; 
He  flung  her  aside  like  cork,  — 

And  still  he  held  for  the  Flag. 

High  in  the  mizzen-shroud 

(Lest  the  smoke  his  sight  o'erwhelm), 
Our  Admiral's  voice  rang  loud  : 

"  Hard-a-starboard  your  helm  ! 
Starboard  !    and  run  him  down  !  " 

Starboard  it  was ;    and  so, 
Like  a  black  squall's  lifting  frown, 
Our  mighty  bow  bore  down 

On  the  iron  beak  of  the  Foe. 

We  stood  on  the  deck  together, 
Men  that  had  looked  on  death 


MOBILE,    THE    BAY.  137 

In  battle  and  stormy  weather; 

Yet  a  little  we  held  our  breath, 

When,  with  the  hush  of  death, 
The  great  ships  drew  together. 

Our  Captain  strode  to  the  bow, 

Drayton,  courtly  and  wise, 

Kindly  cynic,  and  wise, 
(You  hardly  had  known  him  now,  — 

The  flame  of  fight  in  his  eyes  !) 
His  brave  heart  eager  to  feel 
How  the  oak  would  tell  on  the  steel ! 

But,  as  the  space  grew  short, 

A  little  he  seemed  to  shun  us ; 
Out  peered  a  form  grim  and  lanky, 

And  a  voice  yelled  :    "  Hard-a-port ! 
Hard-a-port!  —  here's  the  damned  Yankee 
Coming  right  down  on  us ! " 

He  sheered,  but  the  ships  ran  foul; 
With  a  gnarring  shudder  and  growl, 

He  gave  us  a  deadly  gun ; 
But,  as  he  passed  in  his  pride, 
(Rasping  right  alongside  !) 

The  Old  Flag,  in  thunder-tones, 
Poured  in  her  port  broadside, 
Rattling  his  iron  hide, 

And  cracking  his  timber  bones  ! 


'o 


Just  then,  at  speed  on  the  Foe, 

With  her  bow  all  weathered  and  brown, 
The  great  Lackawanna  came  down 


138  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Full  tilt  for  another  blow: 
We  were  forging  ahead, 

She  reversed;   but,  for  all  our  pains, 
Rammed  the  old  Hartford  instead, 

Just  for'ard  the  mizzen-ehains  ! 

All !   how  the  masts  did  buckle  and  bend, 
And  the  stout  hull  ring  and  reel, 

As  she  took  us  right  on  end  ! 
(Vain  were  engine  and  wheel,  — 
She  was  under  full  steam), — 

With  the  roar  of  a  thunder-stroke 

Her  two  thousand  tons  of  oak 
Brought  up  on  us,  right  abeam ! 

A  wreck,  as  it  looked,  we  lay; 
(Rib  and  plankshear  gave  way 

To  the  stroke  of  that  giant  wedge  !) 
Here,  after  all,  we  go; 
The  old  ship  is  gone !  —  ah,  no, 

But  cut  to  the  water's  edge. 

Never  mind  then  ;   at  him  again  ! 

His  flurry  now  can't  last  long; 
He  '11  never  again  see  land ; 
Try  that  on  him,  Marchand  ! 

On  him  again,  brave  Strong ! 

Heading  square  at  the  hulk, 

Full  on  his  beam  we  bore ; 
But  the  spine  of  the  huge  Sea-Hog 
Lay  on  the  tide  like  a  log, — 
He  vomited  flame  no  more. 


MOBILE,    THE    BAY.  139 

By  this  he  had  found  it  hot : 
Half  the  fleet,  in  an  angry  ring, 
Closed  round  the  hideous  thing, 

Hammering  with  solid  shot, 

And  bearing  down,  bow  on  bow  — 
He  has  but  a  minute  to  choose ; 

Life  or  renown  ?  —  which  now 
Will  the  Rebel  Admiral  lose  ? 

Cruel,  haughty,  and  cold, 

He  ever  was  strong  and  bold, — 

Shall  he  shrink  from  a  wooden  stem? 
He  will  think  of  that  brave  band 
He  sank  in  the  Cumberland: 

Ay,  he  will  sink  like  them. 

Nothing  left  but  to  fight 
Boldly  his  last  sea-fight! 

Can  he  strike  ?     By  Heaven,  't  is  true  ! 

Down  comes  the  traitor  Blue, 
And  up  goes  the  captive  White  ! 

"Up  went  the  White !     Ah,  then, 
The  hurrahs  that,  once  and  agen, 
Rang  from  three  thousand  men, 

All  flushed  and  savage  with  fight! 
Our  dead  lay  cold  and  stark, 
But  our  dying,  down  in  the  dark, 

Answered  as  best  they  might,  — 
Lifting  their  poor  lost  arms, 

And  cheering  for  God  and  Right! 

*  *  * 

Henry  Howard  Brownell. 


140  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Mount  Mitchell,  N.   C. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  BURIAL. 

THE  Rev.  Dr.  Mitchell,  Professor  of  Chemistry,  Mineralogy,  and  Geol 
ogy  in  the  University  of  North  Carolina,  lost  his  life  in  a  scientific  ex 
ploration  of  the  Black  Mountain,  the  highest  land  east  of  the  Mississippi. 
When  discovered  in  a  stream,  where,  during  the  mists  of  evening,  and  the 
darkness  of  a  sudden  thunder-storm,  he  had  fallen  over  a  precipice  of 
forty  feet,  he  held  in  his  hand  a  broken  branch  of  laurel.  He  was  in 
terred  on  Mount  Mitchell,  June  16,  1858. 

WHERE  is  he,  Mountain-Spirit? 
Dread  Mountain-Spirit,  say  ! 
That  honored  Son  of  Science 

Who  dared  thy  shrouded  way  ? 
0  giant  Firs  !  whose  branches 

In  gloomy  grandeur  meet, 
Did  ye  his  steps  imprison 
Within  your  dark  retreat? 

Ye  Mists,  and  muflbd  Thunders 

That  robe  yourselves  in  black, 
Have  you  his  steps  deluded 

To  wander  from  the  track  ? 
Make  answer  !  —  Have  ye  seen  him  ? 

For  hearts  with  fear  are  bowed, 
And  torches  like  the  wandering  stars 

Gleam  out  above  the  cloud. 

Sound,  hunter's  horn  ! — Haste,  Mountaineers! 
Lo,  on  the  yielding  fern, 


MOUNT    MITCHELL.  141 

Are  these  his  footprints  o'er  the  ledge  ? 

Will  he  no  more  return  ? 
He  cometh  !  —  How  ?  —  Like  marble, 

Eorth  from  its  quarried  bed,  — 
With  dripping  locks,  and  rigid  brow, 

The  sculpture  of  the  dead. 

O'er  that  deep,  watery  mirror, 

With  sweetly  pensive  grace 
The  graceful  Rhododendron  leaned 

To  look  upon  his  face, 
While,  mid  the  slippery  gorges 

Those  blushing  laurels  stand, 
Which,  faithless,  like  the  broken  reed, 

Betrayed  his  grasping  hand. 

No  crystal  in  its  hermit-bed, 

No  strata  of  the  dales, 
No  stranger -plant,  or  noteless  vine, 

In  Carolinian  vales, 
No  shell  upon  her  shore, 

No  ivy  on  her  wall, 
No  winged  bird,  or  reptile  form, 

But  he  could  name  them  all. 

So  Nature  hath  rewarded  him 

Who  loved  her  sacred  lore, 
With  such  a  pillow  of  repose 

As  man  ne'er  had  before, 
A  monument  that  biddeth 

Old  Egypt's  glory  hide, 


142  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

With  all  her  kingly  pyramids, 
In  all  their  mole-hill  pride. 

Up  ! — up!  —  courageous  mountaineers,  — 

Each  nerve  and  sinew  strain,  — 
For  what  ye  do  from  love  this  day 

Ye  ne'er  shall  do  again; 
From  beetling  crag  to  summit, 

So  ominous  and  steep, 
They  force  their  venturous  way,  where  scarce 

The  chamois  dares  to  leap. 

There,  many  thousand  feet  above 

Atlantic's  surging  height, 
Prelate  and  priest,  with  lifted  hands 

Invoked  the  God  of  Might, 
And  then  that  cloud-encircled  cliff 

Unlocked  its  granite  breast, 
And  with  a  strong  and  close  embrace 

The  manly  form  comprest : 

So,  in  thy  sepulchre  of  rock, 

Follower  of  Jesus,  rest, 
Serene,  approachless,  and  sublime,  — 

Until  the  mountain  crest 
Shall  redden  with  the  fires  of  doom, 

And  Earth  restore  her  dead  ! 
Then  joyful  leave  thy  Pisgah  tomb, 

The  promised  land  to  tread. 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney* 


MOUNT   TRYON.  143 

Mount  Tryon,  N.  C. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  WINDS. 

T  SATE  upon  the  lofty  Tryon's  brow, 

While  yet  tlie  sun  was  struggling  up  the  east ; 
Broad  was  the  realm  around,  fragrant  below 

The  plains,  with  summer  fruits  and  flowers  increased. 

The  soul  and  eye  were  at  perpetual  feast 
On  beauty;  and  the  exquisite  repose 

Of  nature,  from  the  striving  world  released, 
Taught  me  forgetfulness  of  mortal  throes, 
Life's  toils,  and  all  the  cares  that  wait  on  mortal  woes. 

Never  was  day  more  cloudless  in  the  sky, 

Never  the  earth  more  beautiful  in  view: 
Rosc-hued,  the  mountain-summits  gathered  high, 

And  the  green  forests  shared  the  purple  hue; 

Midway  the  little  pyramids,  all  blue, 
Stood  robed  for  ceremonial,  as  the  sun 

Rose  gradual  in  his  grandeur,  till  he  grew 
Their  God,  and  sovereign  devotion  won, 
Lighting  the  loftiest  towers  as  at  a  service  done. 

Nor  was  the  service  silent;  for  the  choir 

Of  mountain  winds  took  up  the  solemn  sense 

Of  that  great  advent  of  the  central  fire, 
And  poured  rejoicing  as  in  recompense: 
One  hardly  knew  their  place  of  birth,  or  whence 

Their  coming ;  but  through  gorges  of  the  hills, 
Swift  stealing,  yet  scarce  breathing,  they  went  thence 


144  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

To  gather  on  the  plain,  which  straightway  thrills 
With  mightiest  strain  that   soon   the  whole  wide  em 
pire  fills. 

From  gloomy  caverns  of  the  Cherokee ; 

From  gorges  of  Saluda;  from  the  groves 
Of  laurel,  stretching  far  as  eye  may  see, 

In  valleys  of  Iselica;  from  great  coves 

Of  Tensas,  where  the  untamed  panther  roves, 
The  joyous  and  exulting  winds  troop  forth, 

Singing  the  mountain  strain  that  freedom  loves,  — 
A  wild  but  generous  song  of  eagle  birth, 
That    summons,    far   and   near,   the  choral  strains   of 
earth. 

They  come  from  height  and  plain,  from  mount  and  sea, — 
They  gather  in  their  strength,  and,  from  below, 

Sweep  upwards  to  the  heights,  —  an  empire  free, 
Marching  with  pomp  and  music,  —  a  great  show 
Triumphal,  —  like  an  ocean  in  its  flow, 

Glorious  in  roar  and  billow,  as  it  breaks 

O'er  earth's  base  barriers :  first,  ascending  slow, 

The  mighty  march  its  stately  progress  takes, 

But,  rushing  with  its  rise,  its  roar  the  mountain  shakes. 
*  *  * 

Anonymous. 


MOUNT  VERNON. 


Mount  Vernon,   Va. 

MOUNT  VERNON. 

WRITTEN    AT    MOUNT   VERNON,    AUGUST,    1786. 

BY  broad  Potomac's  azure  tide, 
Where  Vernoii's  mount,  in  sylvan  pride, 
Displays  its  beauties  far, 
Great  Washington,  to  peaceful  shades, 
Where  no  unhallowed  wish  invades, 
Retired  from  fields  of  war. 

Angels  might  see,  with  joy,  the  sage, 
Who  taught  the  battle  where  to  rage, 

Or  quenched  its  spreading  flame, 
On  works  of  peace  employ  that  hand, 
Which  waved  the  blade  of  high  command, 

And  hewed  the  path  to  fame. 

Let  others  sing  his  deeds  in  arms, 

A  nation  saved,  and  conquest's  charms : 

Posterity  shall  hear, 

'Twas  mine,  returned  from  Europe's  courts, 
To  share  his  thoughts,  partake  his  sports, 

And  soothe  his  partial  ear. 

To  thee,  my  friend,  these  lays  belong: 
Thy  happy  seat  inspires  my  song, 

With  gay,  perennial  blooms, 
With  fruitage  fair,  and  cool  retreats, 
Whose  bowery  wilderness  of  sweets 

The  ambient  air  perfumes. 


146  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Here  spring  its  earliest  buds  displays, 
Here  latest  on  the  leafless  sprays 

The  plumy  people  sing; 
The  vernal  shower,  the  ripening  year, 
The  autumnal  store,  the  winter  drear, 

Eor  thee  new  pleasures  bring. 

Here,  lapped  in  philosophic  ease, 
Within  thy  walks,  beneath  thy  trees, 

Amidst  thine  ample  farms, 
No  vulgar  converse  heroes  hold, 
But  past  or  future  scenes  unfold, 

Or  dwell  on  nature's  charms. 

What  wondrous  era  have  we  seen, 
Placed  on  this  isthmus,  half  between 

A  rude  and  polished  state  ! 
We  saw  the  war  tempestuous  rise, 
In  arms  a  world,  in  blood  the  skies, 

In  doubt  an  empire's  fate. 

The  storm  is  calmed,  serened  the  heaven, 
And  mildly  o'er  the  climes  of  even 

Expands  the  imperial  day: 
"  0  God,  the  source  of  light  supreme, 
Shed  on  our  dusky  morn  a  gleam, 

To  guide  our  doubtful  way! 

"  Restrain,  dread  Power,  our  land  from  crimes ! 
What  seeks,  though  blest  beyond  all  times, 

So  querulous  an  age  ? 
What  means  to  freedom  such  disgust; 


MOUNT   VERNON.  147 

Of  change,  of  anarchy  the  lust, 
The  fickleness  and  rage  ?  " 

So  spake  his  country's  friend,  with  sighs, 
To  find  that  country  still  despise 

The  legacy  he  gave,  — 
And  half  he  feared  his  toils  were  vain, 
And  much  that  man  would  court  a  chain, 

And  live  through  vice  a  slave. 

A  transient  gloom  o'ercast  his  mind; 
Yet,  still  on  providence  reclined, 

The  patriot  fond  believsd, 
That  power  benign  too  much  had  done, 
To  leave  an  empire's  task  begun, 

Imperfectly  achieved. 

Thus  buoyed  with  hope,  with  virtue  blest, 
Of  every  human  bliss  possessed, 

He  meets  the  happier  hours : 
His  skies  assume  a  lovelier  blue, 
His  prospects  brighter  rise  to  view, 

And  fairer  bloom  his  flowers. 

David  Humphreys. 

MOUNT  VERXOX. 

OTIME  !  whose  wing  untiring  sweeps  the  world ! 
Still  sounding  onward  in  that  stayless  flight,  — 
Unseen,  yet  mightily,  as  when  first  unfurled 
In  the  young  morning  of  creation's  light, — 
How  hast  thou  shaken  from  thy  pinion  here, 


148  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Over  tlie  work  of  man  thy  storm  of  change! 
Where  a  whole  people  bends  in  prayer  and  tear, 
O'er    memories    beyond    words,  —  so     deep  !  —  so 

strange ! 

Where,  as  around  some  hallowed  altar-place, 
We  gather,  to  call  back  the  glory  of  our  days  ! 

Years,  ye  are  reckless,  as  in  pomp  ye  pass, 
With  your  dim  company  of  Death  and  Woe,  — 
Bowing  a  generation  as  the  grass, 
Whose  ranks  scarce  blossom  ere  they  meet  the  blow 
That  levels  them  to  earth !  —  How  stern  ye  tread 
On  your  long  pilgrimage  to  that  far  land, 
Where  ye,  in  turn,  bow  with  the  shadowy  dead,  — 
Of  things  that  joy  us  not  the  voiceless  band  ! 
Yet  as  ye  pass,  how  marked  your  footsteps  fall 
On  all  that  circles  us,  —  from  cradle  to  the  pall! 

The  hovel  and  the  palace,  —  the  loud  hall, 
Where  wealth  holds  holiday,  in  feast  and  song; 
And  the  gray  cloister,  with  its  echoes, — all 
Sound  to  thy  pinions,  as  they  swoop  along, 
Insatiate  Time  !  —  Alike  on  mount  and  vale, 
On  the  low  cottage,  and  the  cloudy  tower, 
Is  written  still  the  melancholy  tale 
Of  thy  unfaltering  progress  and  thy  power  !  — 
That  power  that  owns  not  mercy  or  appeal, 
Stamping  mortality  with  its  eraseless  seal. 

And  here,  where,  hadst  thou  felt  one  thought  of  earth, 
Thy  footsteps  had  fallen  lightly,  and  thy  hand 


MOUNT   VERNON.  149 

Had  lain  with  holier  touch  than  marks  the  mirth 
With  which  it  scars  the  pride  of  every  land,  — 
Here,  where  — -  as  round  arches  of  some  fane 
Virtue  has  made  immortal  —  dull  decay 
Has  struggled  yet  with  memory  in  vain, 
While  lesser  things  of  earth  have  passed  away,  — 
Here,  as  o'er  temples  of  some  heathen  sky, 
Hast  thou  cast  wide  the  shadow  of  thy  revelry  ! 

Ruin  is  written  on  these  sacred  walls  ! 
It  sounds  with  every  footfall,  and  its  tone, 
Like  melancholy  music,  through  these  halls 
Echoes  to  every  whisper,  low,  and  lone  ! 
The  voice  of  other  years  uplifts  around, 
And  to  our  pilgrim  spirit,  as  we  tread, 
It  comes  like  some  remembered  dream  of  sound 
From  the  unfathomed  mansions  of  the  dead ! 
Ruin  !  —  no  other  accent  meets  the  ear ! 
Time  !  frown  no  more  on  earth,  —  thy  empirage  is  here  ! 

But  thou  rememberest  while  a  world  forgets, — 
Thy  seal  is  stamped  upon  the  hallowed  place, 
Where,  though  a  light  is  round  that  never  sets, 
And  memory  lingers,  measured  by  no  days, 
With  Freedom's  children,  —  hearts  that  cannot  die  !  — 
Yet  does  a  people  from  its  capitol 
Look  with  unstartled  pulse  on  that  decay ! 
Hear  the  unheeded  fragments  as  they  fall, 
Nor  ask  what  glory  there  may  be  to  save 

The  shrine  to  which  it  bows,  from  darkness  and  the 
grave ! 


150  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Great  Father  of  thy  country !  —  if  't  is  given, 

Over  its  picture  with  an  angel's  eye 

To  gaze  from  the  broad  watch-towers  of  thy  heaven,  — 

How  shall  these  blackening  lines  of  apathy 

Strike  on  thy  vision !     Shall  ingratitude 

To  one  whose  life  a  people  did  redeem, 

First  strike    thy   spirit?     While   o'er  wrongs    they 

brood, 

Like  hoarding  misers  o'er  some  golden  dream, 
Sparing  that  noble  justice,  which  no  shame 
Can  summon  to  obey,  —  and  give  the  land  to  Fame  ? 

0  look  not,  —  look  not  from  thy  throne  of  stars 
Upon  thy  purchased  world  !  —  so  bravely  won  ! 
There  is  a  shadow  that  its  radiance  mars, 
Deeper  than  the  eclipse  that  drowns  the  sun ! 
Look  not  upon  thy  country !  —  she  has  bowed 
From  that  great  pinnacle  of  glory  down, 
Where  thou  didst  place  her,  and  a  voice  aloud 
Proclaims  her  loftier  pride  and  beauty  flown,  — 
Look  not  upon  thy  country  !  until  she 

Recalls,  with  kindling  thought,  her  destiny  and  thee  ! 

1  stood  upon  the  threshold  of  that  home 
Where  he  was  gathered  to  his  dreamless  sleep ! 
Above  me  rose  no  tower  or  sculptured  dome, 
But  a  strange  quietness  that  makes  you  weep 
Was  round  me  like  an  atmosphere.     I  heard 
That  mocking  of  my  footsteps  through  the  hall, 
And  faint  returnings  of  each  whispered  word, 
Which  on  the  listener  like  a  trump  will  fall, 


NEW    ORLEANS.  151 

Though  humble  be  the  home  and  hearth  he  tread, 
O'er  which  the  desolating  wings  of  Time  have  sped  ! 

I  stood  upon  that  threshold.     The  far  voice 
Of  the  low,  chanting  winds  was  in  my  ear, 
And  my  heart  leaped  within  me,  as  with  joys, 
When  I  bethought  me  of  past  glories  here, 
And  seemed  to  read  its  story  in  that  sound, 
As  syllabled  by  beings  of  the  air, 
Who  swept  unseen  on  silent  wings  around, 
And  held  their  ceaseless  court  of  memory  there ! 
Spirits  that  sentinelled  that  quiet  mount, 

And  lingered  as  about  some  lone  and  magic  fount. 
*  *  * 

Grenville  Mellen. 


New  Orleans,  La. 

THE  RIVER  FIGHT. 

DO  you  know  of  the  dreary  land, 
If  land  such  region  may  seem, 
Where  't  is  neither  sea  nor  strand, 
Ocean  nor  good  dry  land, 

But  the  nightmare  marsh  of  a  dream  ? 
Where  the  Mighty  Eiver  his  death-road  takes, 
Mid  pools  and  windings  that  coil  like  snakes, 
A  hundred  leagues  of  bayous  and  lakes, 
To  die  in  the  great  Gulf  Stream? 


152  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

No  coast-line  clear  and  true, 
Granite  and  deep-sea  blue, 

On  that  dismal  shore  you  pass, 
Surf-worn  boulder  or  sandy  beach,  — 
But  ooze-flats  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach, 

With  shallows  of  water-grass ; 
Reedy  savannas,  vast  and  dun, 
Lying  dead  in  the  dim  March  sun; 
Huge  rotting  trunks  and  roots  that  lie 
Like  the  blackened  bones  of  shapes  gone  by, 

And  miles  of  sunken  morass. 

No  lovely,  delicate  thing 

Of  life  o'er  the  waste  is  seen; 
But  the  cayman,  couched  by  his  weedy  spring, 

And  the  pelican,  bird  unclean, 
Or  the  buzzard,  flapping  with  heavy  wing, 

Like  an  evil  ghost  o'er  the  desolate  scene. 

Ah!  many  a  weary  day 
With  our  leader  there  we  lay, 

In  the  sultry  haze  and  smoke, 
Tugging  our  ships  o'er  the  bar, 
Till  the  spring  was  wasted  far, 

Till  his  brave  heart  almost  broke. 
For  the  sullen  river  seemed 
As  if  our  intent  he  dreamed, — 

-Jl  his  sallow  mouths  did  spew  and  choke. 

But  ere  April  fully  passed, 

All  ground  was  over  at  last, 

And  we  knew  the  die  was  cast, — 


NEW    ORLEANS.  153 

Knew  the  day  drew  nigh 
To  dare  to  the  end  one  stormy  deed, 
Might  save  the  land  at  her  sorest  need, 
Or  on  the  old  deck  to  die ! 

*  *  * 

Would  you  hear  of  the  River  Fight? 
It  was  two  of  a  soft  spring  night; 
God's  stars  looked  down  on  all ; 
And  all  was  clear  and  bright 
But  the  low  fog's  clinging  breath: 
Up  the  River  of  Death 
Sailed  the  Great  Admiral. 

On  our  high  poop-deck  he  stood, 

And  round  him  ranged  the  men 
Who  have  made  their  birthright  good 

Of  manhood  once  and  again,  — 
Lords  of  helm  and  of  sail, 
Tried  in  tempest  and  gale, 

Bronzed  in  battle  and  wreck. 
Bell  and  Bailey  grandly  led 
Each  his  line  of  the  Blue  and  Red; 
Wainwright  stood  by  our  starboard  rail; 

Thornton  fought  the  deck. 

And  I  mind  me  of  more  than  they, 
Of  the  youthful,  steadfast  ones, 
That  have  shown  them  worthy  sons 

Of  the  seamen  passed  away. 

Tyson  conned  our  helm  that  day; 
Watson  stood  by  his  guns. 


154  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

What  thought  our  Admiral  then, 
Looking  down  on  his  men? 

Since  the  terrible  day,  — 
(Day  of  renown  and  tears  !) 

When  at  anchor  the  Essex  lay, 

Holding  her  foes  at  bay,  — 
When  a  boy  by  Porter's  side  he  stood, 
Till  deck  and  plank-shear  were  dyed  with  blood 
'T  is  half  a  hundred  years,  — 

Half  a  hundred  years  to  a  day ! 

Who  could  fail  with  him? 
Who  reckon  of  life  or  limb  ? 

Not  a  pulse  but  beat  the  higher ! 
There  had  you  seen,  by  the  starlight  dim, 
Five  hundred  faces  strong  and  grim : 

The  Flag  is  going  under  fire ! 
Right  up  by  the  fort,  with  her  helm  hard  aport, 

The  Hartford  is  going  under  fire ! 

The  way  to  our  work  was  plain. 
Caldwell  had  broken  the  chain, 
(Two  hulks  swung  down  amain 

Soon  as  't  was  sundered). 
Under  the  night's  dark  blue, 
Steering  steady  and  true, 
Ship  after  ship  went  through, 
Till,  as  we  hove  in  view, 

"  Jackson  "  out-thundered. 

Back  echoed  "  Philip  !  "    Ah  !  then 
Could  you  have  seen  our  men, 


NEW   ORLEANS.  155 

How  they  sprung,  in  the  dim  night  haze, 
To  their  work  of  toil  and  of  clamor ! 
How  the  boarders,  with  sponge  and  rammer, 
And  their  captains,  with  cord  and  hammer, 

Kept  every  muzzle  ablaze. 
How  the  guns,  as  with  cheer  and  shout 
Our  tackle-men  hurled  them  out, 

Brought  up  on  the  water-ways! 

First,  as  we  fired  at  their  flash, 
'T  was  lightning  and  black  eclipse, 

With  a  bellowing  roll  and  crash. 

But  soon,  upon  either  bow, 

What  with  forts,  and  fire-rafts,  and  ships 

(The  whole  fleet  was  hard  at  it,  now), 

All  pounding  away !  —  and  Porter 

Still  thundering  with  shell  and  mortar,  — 
'T  was  the  mighty  sound  and  form  ! 

(Such  you  see  in  the  far  South, 
After  long  heat  and  drought, 

As  day  draws  nigh  to  even, 
Arching  from  north  to  south, 

Blinding  the  tropic  sun, 

The  great  black  bow  comes  on, 
Till  the  thunder- veil  is  riven,  — 
When  all  is  crash  and  levin, 
And  the  cannonade  of  heaven 

Rolls  down  the  Amazon!) 

But,  as  we  worked  along  higher, 
Just  where  the  river  enlarges, 


156  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Down  came  a  pyramid  of  fire,  — 
It  was  one  of  your  long  coal  barges. 
(We  had  often  had  the  like  before.) 

'T  was  coming  down  on  us  to  larboard, 
Well  in  with  the  eastern  shore ; 
And  our  pilot,  to  let  it  pass  round 
(You  may  guess  we  never  stopped  to  sound), 

Giving  us  a  rank  sheer  to  starboard, 
Ran  the  Flag  hard  and  fast  aground  ! 

'T  was  nigh  abreast  of  the  Upper  Tort, 
And  straightway  a  rascal  Ham 
(She  was  shaped  like  the  Devil's  dam) 

Puffed  away  for  us,  with  a  snort, 

And  shoved  it,  with  spiteful  strength, 

Right  alongside  of  us  to  port. 

It  was  all  of  our  ship's  length, — 

A  huge  crackling  Cradle  of  the  Pit ! 
Pitch-pine  knots  to  the  brim, 
Belching  flame  red  and  grim,  — 

What  a  roar  came  up  from  it! 

Well,  for  a  little  it  looked  bad: 

But  these  things  are,  somehow,  shorter 
In  the  acting  than  in  the  telling  ; 
There  was  no  singing  out  or  yelling, 
Or  any  fussing  and  fretting, 

No  stampede,  in  short; 
But  there  we  were,  my  lad, 

All  afire  on  our  port  quarter, 
Hammocks  ablaze  in  the  netting, 

Flame  spouting  in  at  every  port, 


NEW    ORLEANS.  157 

Our  Fourth  Cutter  burning  at  the  davit 
(No  chance  to  lower  away  and  save  it). 

In  a  twinkling  the  flames  had  risen 
Half-way  to  maintop  and  mizzen, 
Darting  up  the  shrouds  like  snakes  ! 
Ah,  how  we  clanked  at  the  brakes, 
And  the  deep  steaming-pumps  throbbed  under, 
Sending  a  ceaseless  now. 
Our  top-men,  a  dauntless  crowd, 
Swarmed  in  rigging  and  shroud : 

There,  ('t  was  a  wonder !) 
The  burning  ratlines  and  strands 
They  quenched  with  their  bare,  hard  hands ; 
But  the  great  guns  below 
Never  silenced  their  thunder! 

At  last,  by  backing  and  sounding, 

When  we  were  clear  of  grounding, 
And  under  headway  once  more, 

The  whole  rebel  fleet  came  rounding 
The  point.     If  we  had  it  hot  before, 
'T  was  now,  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  long,  loud  thundering  roar,  — 

Such  crashing,  splintering,  and  pounding, 
And  smashing  as  you  never  heard  before  ! 

But  that  we  fought  foul  wrong  to  wreck, 
And  to  save  the  land  we  loved  so  well, 

You  might  have  deemed  our  long  gun-deck 
Two  hundred  feet  of  hell ! 


158  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

For  above  all  was  battle, 
Broadside,  and  blaze,  and  rattle, 

Smoke  and  thunder  alone; 
(But,  down  in  the  sick-bay, 
Where  our  wounded  and  dying  lay, 

There  was  scarce  a  sob  or  a  moan.) 
And  at  last,  when  the  dim  day  broke, 
And  the  sullen  sun  awoke, 

Drearily  blinking 

O'er  the  haze  and  the  cannon-smoke, 
That  ever  such  morning  dulls,  — 
There  were  thirteen  traitor  hulls 

On  fire  and  sinking  ! 

Now,  up  the  river!  —  though  mad  Chalmette 

Sputters  a  vain  resistance  yet. 

Small  helm  we  gave  her,  our  course  to  steer, — 

'T  was  nicer  work  than  you  well  would  dream, 
With  cant  and  sheer  to  keep  her  clear 

Of  the  burning  wrecks  that  cumbered  the  stream. 

The  Louisiana,  hurled  on  high, 

Mounts  in  thunder  to  meet  the  sky  ! 

Then  down  to  the  depths  of  the  turbid  flood,  — 

Fifty  fathom  of  rebel  mud! 

The  Mississippi  comes  floating  down, 

A  mighty  bonfire,  from  off  the  town ; 

And  along  the  river,  on  stocks  and  ways, 

A  half-hatched  devil's  brood  is  ablaze,  — 

The  great  Anglo-Norman  is  all  in  flames, 

(Hark  to  the  roar  of  her  tumbling  frames !) 


NEW    ORLEANS.  159 

And  the  smaller  fry  that  Treason  would  spawn 
Are  lighting  Algiers-like  an  angry  dawn! 

From  stem  to  stern,  how  the  pirates  burn, 
Tired  by  the  furious  hands  that  built! 

So  to  ashes  forever  turn 
The  suicide  wrecks  of  wrong  and  guilt! 

But  as  we  neared  the  city, 

By  field  and  vast  plantation, 

(Ah,  millstone  of  our  Nation  !  ) 
With  wonder  and  with  pity, 

What  crowds  we  there  espied 
Of  dark  and  wistful  faces, 
Mute  in  their  toiling  places, 

Strangely  and  sadly  eyed. 

Haply,  mid  doubt  and  fear, 

Deeming  deliverance  near. 

(One  gave  the  ghost  of  a  cheer.) 

And  on  that  dolorous  strand, 

To  greet  the  victor  brave 

One  flag  did  welcome  wave, — 
Raised,  ah  me !  by  a  wretched  hand, 
All  outworn  on  our  cruel  land, — 

The  withered  hand  of  a  slave ! 

But  all  along  the  Levee, 

In  a  dark  and  drenching  rain 
(By  this,  'twas  pouring  heavy), 

Stood  a  fierce  and  sullen  train. 


160  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  strange  and  frenzied  time! 

There  were  scowling  rage  and  pain, 
Curses    howls,  and  hisses, 
Out  of  hate's  black  abysses,  — 
Their  courage  and  their  crime 
All  in  vain,  —  all  in  vain  ! 


Henry  Howard  Brownett. 


Newport  News,    Va. 

A  NAMELESS  GRAVE. 

A  SOLDIER  of  the  Union  mustered  out," 
Is  the  inscription  on  an  unknown  grave 
At  Newport  News,  beside  the  salt-sea  wave, 
Nameless  and  dateless ;  sentinel  or  scout 
Shot  down  in  skirmish,  or  disastrous  rout 
Of  battle,  when  the  loud  artillery  drave 
Its  iron  wedges  through  the  ranks  of  brave 
And  doomed  battalions,  storming  the  redoubt. 
Thou  unknown  hero  sleeping  by  the  sea 
In  thy  forgotten  grave!  witli  secret  shame 
I  feel  my  pulses  beat,  my  forehead  burn, 
When  I  remember  thou  hast  given  for  me 
All  that  thou  liadst,  thy  life,  thy  very  name, 
And  I  can  give  thee  nothing  in  return. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


OCONEE,    THE   RIVER.  161 


Oconee,  the  Ewer,    Ga. 

OCONEE. 

OCONEE  !  in  my  tranquil  slumbers, 
At  the  silent  dead  of  night, 
Oft  I  see  thy  golden  waters 
Flashing  in  the  rosy  light; 
And  flashing  brightly,  gushing  river, 

On  the  spirit  of  my  dream, 
As  in  moments  fled  forever, 

When  I  wandered  by  thy  stream, — 

A  forest  lad,  a  careless  rover, 

Rising  at  the  dawn  of  day, 
With  my  dog  and  gun, — a  hunter, 

Shouting  o'er  the  hills  away,  — 
And  ever  would  my  shoeless  footprints 

Trace  the  shortest  path  to  thee ; 
There  the  plumpest  squirrel  ever 

Chuckled  on  the  chestnut-tree. 

And  when,  at  noon,  the  sun  of  summer 

Glowed  too  fiercely  from  the  sky, 
On  thy  banks  were  bowers  grateful 

To  a  rover  such  as  I, 
Among  the  forest  branches  woven 

By  the  richly  scented  vine, 
Yellow  jasmine,  honeysuckle, 

And  by  creeping  muscadine. 


162  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

.And  there  I  lay  in  pleasant  slumber, 

And  the  rushing  of  thy  stream 
Ever  made  a  gentle  music, 

Blending  softly  with  my  dream, — 
My  dream  of  her  who  near  thy  waters 

Grew  beneath  my  loving  eye, 
Fairest  maid  of  Georgia's  daughters, — 

Sweetest  flower  beneath  her  sky  ! 

With  snowy  brow,  and  golden  ringlets, 

Eyes  that  beggared  heaven's  blue, 
Voice  as  soft  as  summer  streamlets, 

Lips  as  fresh  as  morning  dew !  — 
Although  she  played  me  oft  the  coquette, 

Dealing  frowns  and  glances  shy, 
These  but  made  her  smiles  the  dearer 

To  a  rover  such  as  I. 

What  if  the  earth  by  fairer  river 

Nursed  more  beauteous  maid  than  she,  • 
He  had  found  a  slow  believer 

Who  had  told  that  tale  to  me; 
And  sure  I  am,  no  knighted  lover 

Truer  faith  to  ladie  bore, 
Than  the  little  barefoot  rover, 

Dreaming  on  thy  pleasant  shore. 

The  happiest  hours  of  life  are  vanished; 

She  has  vanished  with  them,  too ! 
Other  bright-eyed  Georgia  damsels 

Blossom  where  my  lily  grew;  — 


PEAKS    OF    OTTER.  163 

And  yet  the  proudest,  and  the  sweetest 

To  my  heart  can  never  seem 
Lovely  as  the  little  Peri 

Mouldering  by  thy  murmurous  stream  ! 

Henry  R.  Jacks  on. 


Peaks  of  Otter,    Va. 

TO  THE  PEAKS  OF  OTTER. 

FAIR  are  the  sunset  hues,  thy  dark  brow  blessing, 
0  mountain,  with  their  gift  of  golden  rays ; 
And  the  few  floating  clouds,  thy  crest  caressing, 

Seem  guardian  angels  to  my  raptured  gaze  : 
I  have  looked  on  thee  through  the  saddest  tears 

That  ever  human  sorrow  taught  to  flow, 
And  thou  wilt  come,  in  life's  recalling  years, 
Linked  with  the  memory  of  my  deepest  woe. 

Yet  well  I  love  thee,  in  thy  silent  mystery, 

Thy  purple  shadows  and  thy  glowing  light,  — 
Thou  art  to  me  a  most  poetic  history 

Of  stillest  beauty  and  of  stormiest  might : 
I  owe  thee,  0  sublime  and  solemn  mountain, 

Tor  many  hours  of  vision  and  of  thought, 
For  pleasant  draughts  from  fancy's  gushing  fountain, 

Tor  bright  illusions  by  thy  presence  brought. 

And  more  I  thank  thee,  for  the  deeper  learning 
That  soothes  my  spirit  as  I  look  on  thee, 


164  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Tor  thou  hast  laid  upon  my  soul's  wild  yearning 

The  holy  spell  of  thy  tranquillity : 
I  shall  recall  thee  with  a  long  regretting, 

And  often  pine  to  see  thy  brow,  in  rain, 
While  Thought,  returning,  fond  and  unforgetting, 

Will  trace  thy  form  in  glory-tints  again. 

And  thou,  in  thine  experience,  all  material, 

Wilt  never  know  how  worshipped  thou  hast  been; 
No  glimpses  of  the  life  that  is  ethereal 

Shadow  thy  face,  eternally  serene  ! 
Thou  hast  not  felt  the  impulse  of  resistance,  — 

Thy  lot  has  linked  thee  with  the  earth  alone : 
Thou  art  no  traveller  to  a  new  existence, 

Thou  hast  no  future  to  be  lost  or  won. 

The  past  for  thee  contains  no  bitter  fountain,  — 

Thou  hast  no  onward  mission  to  fulfil ; 
And  I  would  learn  from  thee,  O  silent  mountain, 

All  things  enduring,  to  be  tranquil  still ! 
And  now,  with  that  fond  reverence  of  feeling 

We  owe  whatever  wakes  our  loftiest  thought, 
I  can  but  offer  thee,  in  faint  revealing, 

These  idle  thanks  for  all  that  thou  hast  brought. 

Jane  Tayloe  Wortldngton. 


PORT   ROYAL.  165 

Port  Boyal,  S.  C. 

-4 

AT  PORT  EOYAL, 

FTIHE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 
JL     The  ship-lights  on  the  sea; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 
Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 

Our  good  boats  forward  swing; 
And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 

Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

Tor  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 

Has  filled  the  West  with  light, 
Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 

Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 
The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast; 


POEMS  or  PLACES. 

From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate, 
The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 
Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  : 

Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 
That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days,  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds: 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG   OF   THE    NEGRO   BOATMEN. 

0,  PRAISE  an'  tanks !     De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den; 
He  say  de  word :  we  las'  night  slaves  ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  freemen. 
De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn ; 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  liis  horn  I 


PORT    ROYAL.  167 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind: 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn ; 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  pray  de  Lord :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea  ; 
We  tiiik  it  when  de  chur,ch-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,'  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn : 
O  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 

An'  nebber  lie  de  Word ; 
So  like  de  '"postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key; 


168  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
"We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn : 
0  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  inarch  to  fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  chant  shall  be 
Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 

The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 
Or  death-rune  of  our  doom ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE   PICKET   GUARD.     See  page  169. 


POTOMAC,    THE    RIVER.  169 


Potomac,  the  River,    Va. 

THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

THE  authorship  of  this  poem  has  been  attributed  to  different  writers. 
The  New  York  Evening  Post  says  :  "  We  have  before  us  a  note  from  Mr. 
H.  M.  Alden,  the  editor  of  Harper's  Weekly,  informing  us  that  it  was 
written  by  Mrs.  Ethel  Lynn  Beers,  and  originally  contributed  to  Har 
per's  Weekly." 

ALL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  they  say, 
Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat,  to  and  fro, 
By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 

}T  is  nothing :  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 
Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 

Not  an  officer  lost,  —  only  one  of  the  men, 
Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming; 

Their  tents,  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 
Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 

A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night -wind 
Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping; 

While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 
Keep  guard,  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 

There  's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread 
As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 


170  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  low  trundle-bed, 
Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 

His  musket  falls  slack;  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep,  — 

For  their  mother,  —  may  Heaven  defend  her ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 
That  night,  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 

Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  —  when  low,  murmured  vows 
Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken. 

Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree,  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 

Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle  :  "  Ha  !  Mary,  good-by  !  " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, — 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead, — 

The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 

Ethel  Lynn  Seers. 


POTOMAC,    THE   RIVER.  171 


A  POTOMAC  PICTURE. 

A  LITTLE  shallop  floating  slow  along 
The  fair  Potomac's  tide, 
The  oarsman  pausing  for  a  simple  song, 
Sung  softly  at  his  side ;  — 

A  quaint,  old-fashioned  love-song,  such  as  stirs 

All  tender  souls,  and  thrills 
To  sudden  youth  the  hearts  of  grandmothers, 

Among  New  England's  hills. 

Great  boughs  of  laurel  garlanding  the  boat, 

Won  from  the  bloomy  store 
Of  forests,  lying  purple  and  remote 

Along  the  eastern  shore. 

Tar  off,  the  city  and  the  growing  dome 

Of  the  fair  Capitol,  — 
White  and  ethereal  as  the  feathery  foam 

Fringing  the  oar-blade's  fall. 

A  fort  looks  down  in  silence  from  the  hill, 

Holding  its  fiery  breath, 
As  loath  to  mar  the  peace  so  sweet  and  still 

By  any  thought  of  death. 

The  blossomed  fruit-trees  drape  the  frowning  walls, 

Disputing  all  their  gloom, 
And  on  the  pyramids  of  cannon-balls 

Drops  the  white  chestnut-bloom. 


172  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  mounted  guns,  all  threatening  and  grim, 
Speak  not  their  thunderous  words,  — 

And  in  and  out  among  their  muzzles  skim, 
Unscared,  the  meadow  birds. 

In  the  horizon  waits  one  patient  star, 

A  sphere  of  silver  white, 
While  the  full  moon,  above  the  hill-tops  far, 

Slow  reddens  into  sight. 

*  *  * 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


BY   THE  POTOMAC. 

THE  soft  new  grass  is  creeping  o'er  the  graves 
By  the  Potomac;  and  the  crisp  ground-flower 
Lifts  its  blue  cup  to  catch  the  passing  shower; 
The  pine-cone  ripens,  and  the  long  moss  waves 
Its  tangled  gonfalons  above  our  braves. 
Hark,  what  a  burst  of  music  from  yon  bower!  — 
The  Southern  nightingale  that,  hour  by  hour, 
In  its  melodious  summer  madness  raves. 
Ah,  with  what  delicate  touches  of  her  hand, 
With  what  sweet  voices,  Nature  seeks  to  screen 
The  awful  Crime  of  this  distracted  land, — 
Sets  her  birds  singing,  while  she  spreads  her  green 
Mantle  of  velvet  where  the  Murdered  lie, 
As  if  to  hide  the  horror  from  God's  eye. 

Thomas  Bailey  Aldrich. 


POTOMAC,    THE    RIVER.  173 


NIGHT  SCENE. 

IS  midnight !  —  through  the  dusky  pines 
The  night- wind  faintly  sighs,  —  the  dew 
Just  twinkles  on  the  leaf,  as  shines 

The  starlight  from  its  home  of  blue  : 
Around  how  calm !  above  how  clear ! 
No  murmur  wakes  an  echo  here. 

The  broad  deep  river  noiseless  flows, 

The  ripple  on  the  shore  expires 
Without  a  sound,  —  its  bosom  glows, 

Another  sky  with  all  its  fires, 
And  glasses  purely,  deeply  down 
Night's  raven  brow  and  starry  crown. 

Far  down  the  winding  silent  bay 
Where  wave  and  sky  uniting  sweep 

In  darker  lines,  a  trembling  ray 

Comes  gleaming  o'er  the  mirrored  deep ; 

Bright,  bright  amid  the  horizon's  gloom 

It  glows  like  hope  above  the  tomb ! 

Through  many  a  wild  and  stormy  night, 
Amid  the  tempest's  gathering  war 

And  hissing  wrath,  that  Cresset's  light 
Above  the  surge  has  beamed,  —  a  star 

To  cheer  the  seaman's  eye,  when  dark 

And  dashing  billows  smote  his  bark. 

But  thus,  when  heaven  and  earth  are  still, 
And  e'en  yon  snowy  wild  swan's  cry 


174  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Is  hushed,  —  no  echo  from  the  hill, 

And  winds  are  sleeping  in  the  sky, — 
How  pure  that  midnight  beacon  glows, 
The  brooding  spirit  of  repose ! 

But  see  !  —  y0n  eastern  blood-red  streaks 
Deepening  along  night's  starry  band! 

Slow  rising  o'er  the  wood-crowned  peaks, 
Whose  shadows  sweep  the  distant  strand, 

Peers  forth  the  queen  of  night,  —  but  now 

The  crown  is  fading  on  her  brow. 

Her  glance  is  on  the  deep,  —  so  dim 
And  joyless  o'er  the  blue  wave  bending, 

You  scarce  may  mark  on  ocean's  brim 

Yon  white  sail  with  the  sea-mist  blending; 

Away  !  —  how  pale  its  light  wing  flies, 

Like  some  pure  spirit  of  the  skies! 

Lone  lovely  night !  in  hours  like  this, 

To  heaven  first  rose  my  raptured  eye; 
And  pictured  forms  in  dreams  of  bliss 

Came  floating  through  the  shadowy  sky ; 
Gay  dreams  of  youth !  —  they  could  not  stay, 
But  fled  like  yon  lone  sail  away  ! 
*  *  * 

Asa  Moore  Bolles, 


RAPPAHANNOCK,    THE    RIVER.  175 

Rappahannock,  the  River,    Va. 

MUSIC  IN  CAMP. 

TWO  armies  covered  hill  and  plain 
Where  Rappahannock's  waters 
Run  deeply  crimsoned  with  the  stain 
Of  battle's  recent  slaughters. 

The  summer  clouds  lay  pitched  like  tents 

In  meads  of  heavenly  azure, 
And  each  dread  gun  of  the  elements 

Slept  in  its  hid  embrasure. 

The  breeze  so  softly  blew,  it  made 

No  forest  leaf  to  quiver, 
And  the  smoke  of  the  random  cannonade 

Rolled  slowly  from  the  riArer. 

And  now  where  circling  hills  looked  down, 

With  cannon   grimly  planted, 
O'er  listless  camp  and  silent  town 

The  golden  sunset  slanted, 

When  on  the  fervid  air  there  came 

A  strain,  now  rich,  now  tender : 
The  music  seemed  itself  aflame 

With  day's  departing  splendor. 

A  Federal  band,  which  eve  and  morn 
Played  measures  brave  and  nimble, 


176  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Had  just  struck  up  with  flute  and  horn, 
And  lively  clash  of  cymbal. 

Down  flocked  the  soldiers  to  the  banks, 

Till,  margined  by  its  pebbles, 
One  wooded  shore  was  blue  with  "Yanks," 

And  one  was  gray  with  "  Rebels." 

Then  all  was  still ;  and  then  the  band, 
With  movement  light  and  tricksy, 

Made  stream  and  forest,  hill  and  strand, 
Reverberate  with  "Dixie." 

The  conscious  stream,  with  burnished  glow, 
Went  proudly  o'er  its  pebbles, . 

But  thrilled  throughout  its  deepest  flow 
With  yelling  of  the  Rebels. 

Again  a  pause,  and  then  again 

The  trumpet  pealed  sonorous, 
And  "Yankee  Doodle"  was  the  strain 

To  which  the  shore  gave  chorus. 

The  laughing  ripple  shoreward  flew 

To  kiss  the  shining  pebbles: 
Loud  shrieked  the  swarming  "  boys  in  blue  " 

Defiance  to  the  Rebels. 

And  yet  once  more  the  bugle  sang 

Above  the  stormy  riot. 
No  shout  upon  the  evening  rang  : 

There  reigned  a  holy  quiet. 


RAPPAHANNOCK,    THE    RIVER.  177 

The  sad,  slow  stream  its  noiseless  flood 
Poured  o'er  the  glistening  pebbles; 

All  silent  now  the  Yankees  stood, 
All  silent  stood  the  Rebels. 

No  unresponsive  soul  had  heard 

That  plaintive  note's  appealing, 
So  deeply  "Home,  Sweet  Home"  had  stirred 

The  hidden  founts  of  feeling. 

Of  blue  or  gray,  the  soldier  sees, 

As  by  the  wand  of  fairy, 
The  cottage  'neath  the  live-oak  trees, 

The  cabin  by  the  prairie. 

Or  cold  or  warm  his  native  skies 

Bend  in  their  beauty  o'er  him, 
Seen  through  the  tear-mist  in  his  eyes, 

His  loved  ones  stand  before  him. 

As  fades  the  iris  after  rain 

In  April's  tearful  weather, 
The  vision  vanished,  as  the  strain 

And  daylight  died  together; 

But  memory,  waked  by  music's  art, 

Expressed  in  simplest  numbers, 
Subdued  the  sternest  Yankee's  heart, 

Made  light  the  Rebel's  slumbers. 

And  fair  the  form  of  Music  shines, 

That  bright,  celestial  creature, 
Who  still  mid  war's  embattled  lines 

Gave  this  one  touch  of  nature. 

John  R.  Thompson. 


178  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Reedy  River,  S.  C. 

THE  FALLS. 

THE  sun  looked  o'er  the  eastern  steep, 
Where  mountain  breezes  freely  sweep, 
To  greet  the  hurrying  flood, 
That  breaks  in  many  a  foamy  line, 
Breaks,  but  to  laughingly  combine 
In  sweet,  coquettish  mood. 

We  stood  upon  the  shelving  shore, 
With  scenes  of  beauty  spread  before, 

Touched  by  the  master's  hand,  — 
The  glancing  light,  the  sparkling  dew, 
The  living  green,  the  upper  blue, 

The  mountains  old  and  grand. 

The  dancing  waters  at  our  feet 
Stayed  not,  our  eager  souls  to  greet, 

But  ever  hastened  on. 
They  sparkled  in  the  morning  light 
One  moment,  then  were  lost  to  sight, 

Gone !  ah,  forever  gone  ! 

This  life  is  but  a  restless  stream, 
And  fitful  lights  may  sometimes  gleam 

Where  shadows  soon  must  be; 
Stern  rocks  will  break  the  silent  flow, 
And  fret  the  waters  as  they  go 

To  that  eternal  sea. 


RICHMOND.  179 

Richmond,    Va. 

IN  LIBBY  PRISON,  NEW  YEAR'S  EVE,  1863 -64, 

TP  IS  twelve  o'clock !    Within  my  prison  dreary, 

-I   My  head  upon  my  hand,  sitting  so  weary, 
Scanning  the  future,  musing  on  the  past, 
Pondering  the  fate  that  here  my  lot  has  cast, 
The  hoarse  cry  of  the  sentry  on  his  beat 
Wakens  the  echoes  of  the  silent  street,  — 

"  All 's  well !  " 

Ah  !  is  it  so  ?     My  fellow-captive  sleeping 
Where  the  barred  window  strictest  watch  is  keeping, 
Dreaming  of  home  and  wife  and  prattling  child, 
Of  the  sequestered  vale,  the  mountain  wild,  — 
Tell  me,  when  cruel  morn  shall  break  again, 
Wilt  thou  repeat  the  sentinel's  refrain, 

"All's  well!" 

And  thou,  my  country !  Wounded,  pale,  and  bleeding, 
Thy  children  deaf  to  a  fond  mother's  pleading, 
Stabbing  with  cruel  hate  the  nurturing  breast 
To  which  their  infancy  in  love  was  prest,  — 
Recount  thy  wrongs,  thy  many  sorrows  name, 
Then  to  the  nations,  if  thou  canst,  proclaim, 

"  All 's  well !  " 

But  through  the  clouds  the  sun  is  slowly  breaking  > 
Hope  from  her  long  deep  sleep  is  re-awaking : 
Speed  the  time,  Father  !  when  the  bow  of  peace, 


180  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Spanning  the  gulf,  shall  bid  the  tempest  cease, 
When  foemen,  clasping  each  other  by  the  hand, 
Shall  shout  once  more,  in  a  united  land, 

"All's  well!" 
F.  A.  Eartleson. 


THE  CONFEDERATE  FLAG. 

TAKE  tli.it  banner  down,  't  is  weary ; 
Round  its  staff  't  is  drooping  dreary; 
Yuri  it,  fold  it,  let  it  rest; 
Yor  there  's  not  a  man  to  wave  it, 
For  there  's  not  a  sword  to  save  it, 
In  the  blood  that  heroes  gave  it ; 
And  its  foes  now  scorn  and  brave  it: 
Yuri  it,  hide  it,  let  it  rest. 

Take  that  banner  down,  't  is  tattered,  — 
Broken  is  its  staff  and  shattered  ; 
And  the  valiant  hosts  are  scattered, 
Over  whom  it  floated  high. 
Oh,  't  is  hard  for  us  to  fold  it ! 
Hard  to  think  there  's  none  to  hold  it; 
Hard,  for  those  who  once  unrolled  it, 
Now  must  furl  it  with  a  sigh. 

Yuri  that  banner,  furl  it  sadly ; 

Once  six  millions  hailed  it  gladly, 

And  ten  thousand  wildly,  madly 

Swore  it  should  forever  wave ; 

Swore  that  foeman's  sword  should  never 

Hearts  like  theirs  entwined  dissever; 


RICHMOND.  181 

And  that  flag  should  float  forever 
O'er  their  freedom  or  their  grave. 

Furl  it,  for  the  hands  that  grasped  it, 
And  the  hearts  that  fondly  clasped  it, 
Cold  and  dead  are  lying  low; 
And  that  banner,  it  is  trailing, 
While  around  it  sounds  the  wailing 
Of  its  people  in  their  woe. 

Tor,  though  conquered,  they  adore  it, — 
Love  the  cold,  dead  hands  that  bore  it; 
Weep  for  those  who  fell  before  it; 
Pardon  those  who  trail  and  tore  it: 
Oh,  how  wildly  they  deplore  it, 
Now  to  furl  and  fold  it  so  ! 

Furl  that  banner  !     True,  't  is  gory ; 
But  't  is  wreathed  around  with  glory, 
And  't  will  live  in  song  and  story, 
Though  its  folds  are  in  the  dust; 
For  its  fame  on  brightest  pages, 
Penned  by  poets  and  by  sages, 
Shall  go  sounding  down  the  ages  : 
Furl  its  folds,  for  now  we  must. 

Furl  that  banner  softly,  slowly; 
Furl  it  gently,  —  it  is  holy,  — 
For  it  droops  above  the  dead : 
Touch  it  not,  — •  unfurl  it  never,  — 
Let  it  droop  there,  furled  forever, 
For  its  people's  hopes  are  fled. 

Anonymous. 


182  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Roanoke,    Va. 

RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE. 

0  MOTHER  EARTH !  upon  thy  lap 
Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Told  softly  in  thy  Jong  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 
Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 

There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps,  —  still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 


ROANOKE.  183 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune !  —  in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting, — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn-like  lightning  blasting; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  shower, 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 


184  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion. 

Still  through  each  change  of  fortune  strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  wave 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 

He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Tell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves ;  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 


ROANOKE.  185 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

Oh,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future   treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand  "  Ilemorse  !  " 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps, 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 


186  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Virginia !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 
A  warning  voice  is  swelling ! 

And  hark !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled  sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee,  — wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving! 
Oh,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Rodman's  Point,  N.  C. 

READY. 

LOADED  with  gallant  soldiers, 
A  boat  shot  in  to  the  land, 
And  lay  at  the  right  of  Hodman's  Point, 
With  her  keel  upon  the  sand. 

Lightly,  gayly,  they  came  to  shore, 

And  never  a  man  afraid; 
When  sudden  the  enemy  opened  fire, 

From  his  deadly  ambuscade. 

Each  man  fell  flat  on  the  bottom 
Of  the  boat ;  and  the  captain  said : 

"  If  we  lie  here,  we  all  are  captured, 
And  the  first  who  moves  is  dead ! " 


ST.    AUGUSTINE.  187 

Then  out  spoke  a  negro  sailor, 

No  slavish  soul  had  he : 
"  Somebody  's  got  to  die,  boys, 

And  it  might  as  well  be  me ! " 

Firmly  lie  rose,  and  fearlessly 

Stepped  out  into  the  tide; 
He  pushed  the  vessel  safely  off, 

Then  fell  across  her  side : 

Fell,  pierced  by  a  dozen  bullets, 

As  the  boat  swung  clear  and  free;  — 

But  there  was  n't  a  man  of  them  that  day 
Who  was  fitter  to  die  than  he ! 

Phoebe  Carey. 


St.  Augustine,  Fla. 

ST.  AUGUSTINE. 

ST.  AUGUSTINE,  Fla.,  was  founded  by  the  Spaniards  in  the  vear  1565 
During  the  past  three  centuries  it  has  been  the  scene  of  many  sieves  and 
has  been  many  times  ravaged  by  the  French,  Indians,  and  Spanish.  '  But 
little  ot  the  old  city  now  remains ;  time  and  war  have  done  their  work 
But  its  picturesque  appearance  and  historic  associations,  added  to  its  be- 
mg  the  oldest  town  in  North  America,  still  invest  it  with  great  interest. 

TN  the  realm  of  flowers,  a  perfumed  land, 
J-  Girt  by  the  sea,  by  soft  winds  fanned, 
Ravaged  by  war  in  years  grown  old, 
Its  former  glory  a  tale  long  told, 

Stands  the  quaint  old  Spanish  city. 

The  scene  of  many  a  hard-fought  fight, 
Of  many  a  siege,  when  Spanish  might 


188  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Was  o'er  the  land  :  in  its  decay 
It  hath  a  beauty  to  live  alway, 

That  quaint  old  Spanish  city. 

There 's  a  charm  in  the  ancient  narrow  street, 
Where  lovely  dames  erst  walked  to  meet 
Cavaliers  in  the  days  gone  by, 
When  strife  of  valor  and  love  ran  high 

In  the  quaint  old  Spanish  city. 

*  *  * 

There 's  a  charm  in  the  convent's  crumbling  wall ; 

In  old  cathedral  with  turret  tall, 

With  moss-grown  roof  and  merry  chime, 

Man  outliving,  defying  time, 

In  the  quaint  old  Spanish  city. 

*  *  * 

Anonymous. 

DOLORES. 

HER  old  boat  loaded  with  oranges, 
Her  baby  tied  on  her  breast, 
Minorcan  Dolores  bends  to  her  oars, 
Noting  each  reed  on  the  slow-moving  shores; 
But  the  way  is  long,  and  the  inlet  wide,  — 
Can  two  small  hands  overcome  the  tide 
Sweeping  up  into  the  west? 

Four  little  walls  of  coquina-stone, 

Rude  thatch  of  palmetto  leaves ; 
There  have  they  nestled,  like  birds  in  a  tree, 
From  winter  and  lubjr  and  hunger  free; 
Taking  from  earth  their  small  need,  but  no  more, 


ST.    AUGUSTINE.  189 

No  thought  of  the  morrow,  no  laying  in  store, 
No  gathering  patient  sheaves. 

Alone  in  their  Southern  island-home, 

Through  the  year  of  summer  days, 
The  two  love  on ;  and  the  bountiful  beach 
Clusters  its  sea-food  within  his  reach; 
The  two  love  on,  and  the  tropical  land 
Drops  its  wild  fruit  in  her  indolent  hand, 

And  life  is  a  sunshiny  haze. 

Luiz,  Dolores,  and  baby  brown, 

With  dreamy,  passionate  eyes, — 
Ear  in  the  past,  lured  by  Saxon  wiles, 
A  simple  folk  came  from  the  Spanish  sea-isles, 
Now,  tinged  with  the  blood  of  the  Creole  quadroon, 
Their  children  live  idly  along  the  lagoon, 

Under  the  Florida  skies. 

Luiz,  Dolores,  and  baby  brown, 

Ah,  their  blossoming  life  of  love  !  — 
But  fever  falls  with  its  withering  blight: 
Dolores  keeps  watch  through  the  sultry  night, 
In  vain  her  poor  herbs,  in  vain  her  poor  prayers,  — 
Her  Luiz  is  mounting  the  spirit-winged  stairs 
That  lead  to  her  heaven  above. 

So,  her  old  boat  loaded  with  oranges, 

Her  baby  tied  on  her  breast, 
Dolores  rows  off  to  the  ancient  town, 
Where  the  blue-eyed  soldiers  come  marching  down. 
From  the  far  cold  North;  they  are  men  who  know — 


190  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Thus  Dolores  thinks  —  how  to  cure  all  woe ; 
Nay,  their  very  touch  is  blest. 


But  the  northern  soldiers  move  steadily  on, 

They  hear  not  nor  understand  ; 
The  last  blue  rank  has  passed  down  the  street, 
She  sees  but  the  dust  of  their  marching  feet; 
They  have  crossed  a  whole  country  by  night  and  by  day, 
And  marked,  with  their  blood,  every  step  of  the  way, 

To  conquer  this  Southern  land. 

They  are  gone  — 0  despair!  she  turns  to  the  church, 

Half  fainting,  her  fruit  wet  with  tears ; 
"Perhaps  the  old  saint,  who  is  always  there, 
May  wake  up  and  take  them  to  pay  for  a  prayer; 
They  are  very  sweet,  as  the  saint  will  see, 
If  he  would  but  wake  up,  and  listen  to  me: 
But  he  sleeps  so,  he  never  hears.'' 

She  enters ;  the  church  is  filled  with  men, 

The  pallid  men  of  the  North ! 
Each  dingy  old  pew  is  a  sick  man's  bed, 
Each  battered  old  bench  holds  a  weary  head, 
The  altar-candles  are  swept  away 
For  vials  and  knives  in  shining  array, 

And  a  new  saint  is  stepping  forth ! 

He  must  be  a  saint,  for  he  comes  from  the  shrine, 

A  saint  of  a  Northern  creed,  — 
Clad  in  a  uniform,  —  army  blue, 
But  surely  the  saints  may  wear  any  hue 


ST.  CATHERINE'S,  THE  ISLAND.  191 

Dolores  thinks,  as  lie  takes  her  hands 
And  hears  all  her  story,  and  understands 
The  cry  of  her  desperate  need. 

An  orange  he  gives  to  each  weary  man, 

To  freshen  the  fevered  mouth, 
Then  forth  they  go  down  the  old  sea-wall, 
And  they  hear  in  the  dusk  the  picket's  call; 
The  row-boat  is  moored  on  the  shadowy  shore, 
The  Northern  saint  can  manage  an  oar, 

And  the  boat  glides  fast  to  the  south. 

A  healing  touch  and  a  holy  drink, 
A  bright  little  heavenly  knife, 

And  this  strange  Northern  saint,  who  prays  no  prayers, 
Brings  back  the  soul  from  the  spirit-winged  stairs, 
And  once  more  Minorcan  Luiz's  dark  eyes, 
In  whose  depths  the  warmth  of  the  tropics  lies, 
Rest  calm  on  the  awe-stricken  wife. 
*  *  * 

Constance  Fenimore  Woohon. 


St.   Catherine's,   the  Island,  Ga. 

ST.  CATHERINE'S. 

HE  that  would  wish  to  rove  awhile 
In  forests  green  and  gay, 
From  Charleston  Bar  to  Catharine's  Isle 
Might  sigh  to  find  the  way ! 


192  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

What  scenes  on  avery  side  appear, 
What  pleasure  strikes  the  mind, 
From  Folly's  train,  thus  wandering  far, 
To  leave  the  world  behind. 

The  music  of  these  savage  groves 

In  simple  accents  swells, 

And  freely  here  their  sylvan  loves 

The  feathered  nation  tells; 

The  panting  deer  through  mingled  shades 

Of  oaks  forever  green 

The  vegetable  world  invades, 

That  skirts  the  watery  scene. 

Thou  sailor,  now  exploring  far 

The  broad  Atlantic  wave, 

Crowd  all  your  canvas,  gallant  tar, 

Since  Neptune  never  gave 

On  barren  seas  so  fine  a  view 

As  here  allures  the  eye, 

Gay,  verdant  scenes  that  Nature  drew 

In  colors  from  the  sky. 

Ye  western  winds  !  awhile  delay 

To  swell  the  expecting  sail, — 

Who  would  not  here,  a  hermit,  stay 

In  yonder  fragrant  vale, 

Could  he  engage  what  few  can  find, 

That  coy,  unwilling  guest 

(All  avarice  banished  from  the  mind), 

Contentment,  in  the  breast ! 

Philip  Freneau. 


ST.    SIMON'S    ISLAND. SAN    ANTONIO.        193 

St.  Simon's  Island,   Ga. 

THE  BEES  OF  ST,  SIMON'S. 

FTHHERE  lies,  far  in  the  bosom  of  the  seas, 

An  island  fair : 
All  summer  long  the  patient  little  bees 

Are  busy  there. 
The  honey  which  they  gather  in  their  round, 

Buzzing  from  flower  to  flower, 
They  hoard  in  a  quaint  beehive  they  have  found 

In  the  old  church  tower. 

*  *  * 
Like  Jonathan,  when  fainting  he  did  roam 

The  hungry  waste, 
How  was  he  quickened  when  a  honeycomb 

He  did  but  taste ! 
So  to  those  weary  laborers  on  lone  shores, 

This  humble  hive  supplies 
The  luscious  droppings  of  its  annual  stores 

To  light  their  eyes. 

*  *  * 

dnonymous. 

San  Antonio,  Tex. 

MISION  SAN  ANTONIO. 

AMID  these  ruins,  gloomy,  ghostly,  strange, 
The  weird  memorials  of  an  elder  time, 
The  sacred  relics  of  dead  centuries, 


194  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

I  stand  in  utter  loneliness ;  and  thoughts 
As  solemn  as  the  mysteries  of  the  deep 
Come  o'er  me,  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud 
O'er  the  still  waters  of  a  lonely  lake, 
Or  like  the  mournful  twilight  of  eclipse 
O'er  the  dim  face  of  Nature. 

Ye  were  reared, 

O  ruins  old,  by  stern  and  holy  men, — 
God's  messengers  unto  a  new-found  world,  — 
Whose  voices,  like  the  trumpets  of  the  blast, 
Resounded  through  the  forests,  and  shook  down, 
As  by  an  earthquake's  dread  iconoclasm, 
The  idols  that  men  worshipped.     Their  great  lives 
Were  given  to  awful  duty,  and  their  words 
Swelled,  breathed,  and  burned  and  throbbed  upon  the  air 
In  solemn  majesty.     They  did  not  shrink 
Or  falter  in  the  path  of  thorn  and  rock 
Their  souls  marked  out.     Their  mouldered  relics  lie 
Beneath  yon  humble  mounds ;  but  ah,  their  names, 
There  rudely  sculptured  upon  blocks  of  stone, 
Are  breathed  on  earth  with  reverential  awe, 
And  written  by  God's  finger  on  His  scroll 
Of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Age  has  followed  age 
To  the  abysses  of  Eternity ; 
And  many  generations  of  our  race 
Have  sprung  and  faded  like  the  forest  leaves; 
The  mightiest  temples  reared  by  human  pride 
Have  long  been  scattered  by  a  thousand  storms, — 
But  ye  remain.     Ah  yes,  ye  still  remain, 
And  many  pilgrims  yearly  turn  aside 


SANTEE,    THE    RIVER.  195 

From  their  far  journeyings,  to  come  and  pause 

Amid  your  shattered  wrecks,  as  lone  and  wild 

\s  those  of  Tadmor  of  the  desert.     Wolves 

Howl  nightly  in  your  ghostly  corridors, 

And  here  the  deadly  serpent  makes  his  home. 

Yet  round  your  broken  walls,  your  fallen  roofs, 

Your  many  crumbling,  shattered  images, 

Your  sunken  floors,  your  shrines  with  grass  o'ergrown, 

And  the  unnumbered  strange,  mysterious  flowers, 

That  stand,  pale  nuns,  upon  your  topmost  heights, 

Wild  chants  and  soul-like  dirges  seem  to  rise, 

And  the  low  tones  of  eloquence  and  prayer 

Seem  sounding  on  the  hollow  winds;  and  here 

I  kneel  as  lowly  as  I  could  have  knelt, 

If  I  had  listened  to  the  living  words 

Your  grand  old  founders  uttered  in  the  name 

Of  God,  who  sent  them  to  proclaim  his  will. 

George  Lenison  Prentice. 


Santee,  the  River,  S.   C. 

SONG  OF  MARION'S  MEN.1 

OUR  band  is  few,  but  true  and  tried, 
Our  leader  frank  and  bold ; 
The  British  soldier  trembles 

When  Marion's  name  is  told. 
Our  fortress  is  the  good  green  wood, 
Our  tent  the  cypress-tree; 


196  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

We  know  the  forest  round  us, 

As  seamen  know  the  sea. 
We  know  its  walls  of  thorny  vines, 

Its  glades  of  reedy  grass, 
Its  safe  and  silent  islands 

Within  the  dark  morass. 

Woe  to  the  English  soldiery 

That  little  dread  -us  near  ! 
On  them  shall  light  at  midnight 

A  strange  and  sudden  fear: 
When  waking  to  their  tents  on  fire 

They  grasp  their  arms  in  vain, 
And  they  who  stand  to  face  us 

Are  beat  to  earth  again; 
And  they  who  fly  in  terror  deem 

A  mighty  host  behind, 
And  hear  the  tramp  of  thousands 

Upon  the  hollow  wind. 

Then  sweet  the  hour  that  brings  release 

From  danger  and  from  toil: 
We  talk  the  battle  over, 

And  share  the  battle's  spoil. 
The  woodland  rings  with  laugh  and  shout, 

As  if  a  hunt  were  up, 
And  woodland  flowers  are  gathered 

To  crown  the  soldier's  cup. 
With  merry  songs  we  mock  the  wind 

That  in  the  pine-top  grieves, 
And  slumber  long  and  sweetly, 

On  beds  of  oaken  leaves. 


SANTEE,    THE    RIVER.  197 

Well  knows  the  fair  and  friendly  moon 

The  band  that  Marion  leads, — 
The  glitter  of  their  rifles, 

The  scampering  of  their  steeds. 
JT  is  life  our  fiery  barbs  to  guide 

Across  the  moonlight  plains ; 
'Tis  life  to  feel  the  night- wind 

That  lifts  their  tossing  manes. 
A  moment  in  the  British  camp,  — 

A  moment,  —  and  away, 
Back  to  the  pathless  forest, 

Before  the  peep  of  day. 

Grave  men  there  are  by  broad  Santee, 

Grave  men  with  hoary  hairs, 
Their  hearts  are  all  with  Marion, 

For  Marion  are  their  prayers. 
And  lovely  ladies  greet  our  band 

With  kindliest  welcoming, 
With  smiles  like  those  of  summer, 

And  tears  like  those  of  spring. 
For  them  we  wear  these  trusty  arms, 

And  lay  them  down  no  more 
Till  we  have  driven  the  Briton 

Forever  from  our  shore. 

William  Cutten  Bryant. 


198 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


SALLIE  ST.  CLAIRE. 

TN  the  ranks  of  Marion's  band, 
L  Through  morass  and  wooded  land, 
Over  beach  of  yellow  sand, 

Mountain,  plain,  and  valley, 
A  Southern  maid,  in  all  her  pride, 
Marched  gayly  at  her  lover's  side, 
In  such  disguise 
That  e'en  his  eyes 
Did  not  discover  Sallie ! 

When  returned  from  midnight  tramp, 
Through  the  forest  dark  and  damp, 
On  his  straw-couch  in  the  camp, 

In  his  dreams  he'd  dally 
With  that  devoted,  gentle  fair, 
Whose  large  black  eyes  and  flowing  hair 
So  near  him  seem, 
That  in  his  dream 
He  breathes  his  love  for  Sallie ! 

Oh,  what  joy  that  maiden  knew, 
When  she  found  her  lover  true  ! 
Suddenly  the  trumpet  blew, 

Marion's  men  to  rally ! 
To  ward  the  death-spear  from  his  side  !  — 
In  battle  by  Santee  she  died !  — 
Where  sings  the  surge 
A  ceaseless  dirge 
Near  the  lone  grave  of  Sallie. 

George  P.  Morris. 


SAVANNAH.  199 

Savannah,   Ga. 

SAVANNAH. 

THOU  hast  not  drooped  thy  stately  head, 
Thy  woes  a  wondrous  beauty  shed! 
Not  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 
But  with  the  lion's  monarch  tread, 
Thou  comest  to  thy  battle  bed, 

Savannah  !  0  Savannah  ! 

Thine  arm  of  flesh  is  girded  strong ; 
The  blue  veins  swell  beneath  thy  wrong; 
To  thee  the  triple  cords  belong, 
Of  woe  and  death  and  shameless  wrong, 
And  spirit  vaunted  long,  too  long  ! 

Savannah  !  0  Savannah  ! 

No  blood-stains  spot  thy  forehead  fair; 

Only  the  martyrs'  blood  is  there  ; 

It  gleams  upon  thy  bosom  bier, 

It  moves  thy  deep,  deep  soul  to  prayer, 

And  tunes  a  dirge  for  thy  sad  ear, 

Savannah  !   0  Savannah  ! 

Thy  clean  white  hand  is  opened  wide 
For  weal  or  woe,  thou  Freedom  Bride ; 
The  sword-sheath  sparkles  at  thy  side, 
Thy  plighted  troth,  whate'er  betide, 
Thou  hast  but  Freedom  for  thy  guide, 
Savannah  !  0  Savannah  ! 


200 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 


What  though  the  heavy  storm-cloud  lowers 
Still  at  thy  feet  the  old  oak  towers  ; 
Still  fragrant  are  thy  jessamine  bowers, 
And  things  of  beauty,  love,  and  flowers 
Are  smiling  o'er  this  land  of  ours, 

My  sunny  home,  Savannah! 

There  is  no  film  before  thy  sight,— 

Thou  seest  woe  and  death  and  night 

And  blood  upon  thy  banner  bright; 
But  in  thy  full  wrath's  kindled  might, 
What  carest  thou  for  woe  or  night  ? 

My  rebel  home,  Savannah ! 

Come  —  for  the  crown  is  on  thy  head  ! 
Thy  woes  a  Wondrous  beauty  shed, 
Not  like  a  lamb  to  slaughter  led, 
But  with  the  lion's  monarch  tread, 
Oh!  come  unto  thy  battle  bed, 

Savannah!   0  Savannah! 

Alethea  S.  Burroughs. 

THE  DEATH  OF  JASPER. 

>m  WAS  amidst  a  scene  of  blood, 

On  a  bright  autumnal  day, 
When  misfortune  like  a  flood 

Swept  our  fairest  hopes  away-, 
'Twas  on  Savannah's  plain, 

On  the  spot  we  love  so  well, 
Amid  heaps  of  gallant  slain, 

That  the  daring  Jasper  fell! 


SAVANNAH.  201 

He  had  borne  him  in  the  fight, 

Like  a  soldier  in  his  prime, 
Like  a  bold  and  stalwart  knight, 

Of  the  glorious  olden  time ; 
And  unharmed  by  sabre-blow, 

And  untouched  by  leaden  ball, 
He  had  battled  with  the  foe, 

Till  he  heard  the  trumpet's  call. 

But  he  turned  him  at  the  sound, 

Tor  he  knew  the  strife  was  o'er, 
That  in  vain  on  freedom's  ground 

Had  her  children  shed  their  gore; 
So  he  slowly  turned  away, 

With  the  remnant  of  the  band, 
Who.,  amid  the  bloody  fray, 

Had  escaped  the  foe  man's  hand. 

But  his  banner  caught  his  eye, 

As  it  trailed  upon  the  dust, 
And  he  saw  his  comrade  die, 

Ere  he  yielded  up  his  trust. 
"To  the  rescue  !"  loud  he  cried, 

"  To  the  rescue,  gallant  men  ! " 
And  he  dashed  into  the  tide 

Of  the  battle-stream  again. 

And  then  fierce  the  contest  rose, 

O'er  its  field  of  broidered  gold, 
And  the  blood  of  friends  and  foes 

Stained  alike  its  silken  fold; 


202  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But,  unheeding  wound  and  blow, 
He  has  snatched  it  midst  the  strife, 

He  has  borne  that  flag  away, 
But  its  ransom  is  his  life  ! 

"To  my  father  take  my  sword," 

Thus  the  dying  hero  said, 
"Tell  him  that  my  latest  word 

Was  a  blessing  on  his  head; 
And  when  Death  had  seized  my  frame, 

And  uplifted  was  his  dart, 
That  I  ne'er  forgot  the  name 

Which  was  dearest  to  my  heart. 

"  And  tell  her  whose  favor  gave 

This  fair  banner  to  our  band, 
That  I  died  its  folds  to  save, 

From  the  foe's  polluting  hand; 
And  let  all  my  comrades  hear, 

When  my  form  lies  cold  in  death, 
That  their  friend  remained  sincere 

To  his  last  expiring  breath." 

It  was  thus  that  Jasper  fell, 

'Neath  that  bright  autumnal  sky; 
Has  a  stone  been  reared  to  tell 

Where  he  laid  him  down  to  die? 
To  the  rescue,  spirits  bold  ! 

To  the  rescue,  gallant  men! 
Let  the  marble  page  unfold 

All  his  daring  deeds  again ! 

Robert  M.  Ckarlton. 


SHENANDOAH,    THE    VALLEY.  203 

Shenandoah,  the  Valley,  Va. 

BY  THE  SHENANDOAH. 

MY  home  is  drear  and  still  to-night, 
Where  Shenandoah,  murmuring,  flows ; 
The  Blue  Ridge  towers  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

And  balmily  the  south- wind  blows; 
But  my  fire  burns  dim,  while  athwart  the  wall, 
Black  as  the  pines,  the  shadows  fall; 
And  the  only  friend  within  my  door 
Is  the  sleeping  hound  on  the  moonlit  floor. 

Roll  back,  0  weary  years  !   and  bring 

Again  the  gay  and  cloudless  morn 
When  every  bird  was  on  the  wing, 

And  my  blithe  summer  boys  were  born ! 
My  Courtney  fair,  my  Philip  bold, 
With  his  laughing  eyes  and  his  locks  of  gold,  — 
No  nested  bird  in  the  valley  wide 
Sang  as  my  heart,  that  eventide. 

Our  laurels  blush  when  May- winds  call; 

Our  pines  shoot  high  through  mellow  showers; 
So  rosy-flushed,  so  slender-tall, 

My  boys  grew  up  from  childhood's  hours. 
Glad  in  the  breeze,  the  sun,  the  rain, 
They  climbed  the  heights  or  they  roamed  the  plain ; 
And  found  where  the  fox  lay  hid  at  noon, 
And  the  shy  fawn  drank  by  the  rising  moon. 


204  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Fleet  Storm,  look  up!   you  ne'er  may  hear, 

When  all  the  dewy  glades  are  still, 
In  silver  windings,  fine  and  clear, 

Their  whistle  stealing  o'er  the  hill ! 
And  fly  to  the  shade  where  the  wild  deer  rest, 
Ere  morn  has  reddened  the  mountain's  crest; 
Nor  sit  at  their  feet,  when  the  chase  is  o'er, 
And  the  antlers  hang  by  the  sunset-door. 

What  drew  our  hunters  from  the  hills? 

They  heard  the  hostile  trumpets  blow, 
And  leapt  adown  like  April  rills 

When  Shenandoah  roars  below. 
One,  to  the  field  where  the  old  flag  shines, 
And  one,  alas  !   to  the  traitor  lines  ! 
My  tears,  —  their  fond  arms  round  me  thrown,  — 
And  the  house  was  hushed  on  the  hillside  lone. 

But  oh !  to  feel  my  boys  were  foes 

Was  sharper  than  their  sabres'  steel! 
In  every  shifting  cloud  that  rose 

I  saw  their  deadly  squadrons  wheel; 
And  heard  in  the  waves,  as  they  hurried  by, 
Their  hasty  tread  when  the  fight  was  nigh, 
And,  deep  in  the  wail  which  the  night-winds  bore, 
Their  dying  moan  when  the  fight  was  o'er. 

So  time  went  on.  —  The  skies  were  blue ; 

Our  wheat-fields  yellow  in  the  sun; 
When  down  the  vale  a  rider  flew : 

"  Ho  !  neighbors,  Gettysburg  is  won  ! 
Horse  and  foot,  at  the  cannon's  mouth 


SHENANDOAH,    THE    VALLEY.  205 

We  hurled  them  back  to  the  hungry  South; 
The  North  is  safe;    and  the  vile  marauder 
Curses  the  hour  he  crossed  the  border." 

My  boys  were  there !     I  nearer  prest,  — 

"  And  Philip,  Courtney,  what  of  them  ? " 
His  voice  dropped  low :    "  Oh,  madam,  rest 

Falls  sweet  when  battle's  tide  we  stem. 
Your  Philip  was  first  of  the  brave  that  day 
With  his  colors  grasped  as  in  death  he  lay ; 
And  Courtney  —  well,  I  only  knew 
Not  a  man  was  left  of  his  rebel  crew." 


My  home  is  drear  and  still  to-night 

Where  Shenandoah,  murmuring,  flows; 
The  Blue  Ridge  towers  in  the  pale  moonlight, 

And  balmily  the  south-wind  blows ; 
But  my  fire  burns  dim,  while  athwart  the  wall, 
Black  as  the  pines,  the  shadows  fall ; 
And  the  only  friend  within  my  door 
Is  the  sleeping  hound  on  the  moonlit  floor. 

Yet  still  in  dreams  my  boys  I  own ; 

They  chase  the  deer  o'er  dewy  hills, 
Their  hair  by  mountain  winds  is  blown, 

Their  shout  the  echoing  valley  fills. 
Wafts  from  the  woodland,  spring  sunshine, 
Come  as  they  open  this  door  of  mine, 
And  I  hear  them  sing  by  the  evening  blaze 
The  songs  they  sang  in  the  vanished  days. 


206  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

I  cannot  part  tlieir  lives  and  say, 

"  This  was  the  traitor,  this  the  true  " ; 
God  only  knows  why  one  should  stray, 

And  one  go  pure  death's  portals  through. 
They  have  passed  from  their  mother's  clasp  and  care  ; 
But  my  heart  ascends  in  the  yearning  prayer 
That  His  larger  love  will  the  two  enfold,  — 
My  Courtney  fair  and  my  Philip  bold! 

Edna,  Dean  Proctor. 


A  NOVEMBER  NOCTURNE. 

THE  autumn  air  sweeps  faint  and  chill 
Across  yon  maple-crested  hill; 
And  on  my  ear 
Palls,  tingling  clear, 
A  strange,  mysterious,  woodland  thrill. 

From  outmost  twig,  from  scarlet  crown, 
Untouched  with  yet  a  tinct  of  brown, 

Reluctant,  slow, 

As  loath  to  go, 
The  loosened  leaves  come  wavering  down. 

And  not  a  hectic  trembler  there, 
In  its  decadence  doomed  to  share 

The  fate  of  all, 

But  in  its  fall 
Flings  something  sob-like  on  the  air. 

No  drift  or  dream  of  passing  bell, 
Dying  afar  in  twilight  dell, 


SHENANDOAH,    THE    VALLEY.  20? 

Hath,  any  heard 
Whose  echoes  stirred 
A  tenderer  pathos  of  farewell. 

A  silent  shiver,  as  of  pain, 

Goes  quivering  through  each  sapless  vein; 

And  there  are  moans 

Whose  undertones 
Are  sad  as  autumn-midnight  rain. 

If  then,  without  a  dirge-like  sigh, 
No  lightest-clinging  leaf  can  die,  — 

Let  him  who  saith 

Decay  and  death 
Need  bring  no  heart-break,  tell  me  why. 

Each  graveyard  gives  the  answer :    there 
I  read  "  Resurgam  "  everywhere  ; 

So  easy  said 

Above  the  dead, — 
So  weak  to  anodyne  despair ! 

Margaret  Junkin  Preston. 


STONEWALL  JACKSON'S  WAY. 

COME,  stack  arms,  men!     Pile  on  the  rails, 
Stir  up  the  camp-fire  bright; 
No  matter  if  the  canteen  fails, 
We  '11  make  a  roaring  night. 
Here  Shenandoah  brawls  along, 
There  burly  Blue  Ridge  echoes  strong, 


208  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

To  swell  the  brigade's  rousing  song 
Of  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

We  see  him  now,  —  the  old  slouched  hat 

Cocked  o'er  his  eye  askew ; 
The  shrewd,  dry  smile,  the  speech  so  pat, 

So  calm,  so  blunt,  so  true. 
The  "Blue-Light  Elder"  knows  'em  well; 
Says  he,  "  That 's  Banks,  —  he  's  fond  of  shell ; 
Lord  save  his  soul !  we  '11  give  him "  ;  well. 

That 's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Silence  !  ground  arms  !  kneel  all !  caps  off  ! 

Old  Blue-Light 's  going  to  pray. 
Strangle  the  fool  that  dares  to  scoff! 

Attention !  it  's  his  way. 
Appealing  from  his  native  sod, 
In  forma  pauperis  to  God  : 
"  Lay  bare  Thine  arm ;  stretch  forth  Thy  rod ! 

Amen!"     That's  "  Stonewall's  way." 

He  's  in  the  saddle  now.     Fall  in ! 

Steady !  the  whole  brigade  ! 
Hill  's  at  the  ford,  cut  off ;  we  '11  win 

His  way  out,  ball  and  blade! 
What  matter  if  our  shoes  are  worn? 
What  matter  if  our  feet  are  torn? 
"  Quick-step  !  we  're  with  him  before  morn  !  " 

That 's  "  Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

The  sun's  bright  lances  rout  the  mists 
Of  morning,  and  by  George  ! 


SULLIVAN'S  ISLAND.  209 

Here  's  Longstreet  struggling  in  the  lists, 

Hemmed  in  an  ugly  gorge. 
Pope  and  his  Yankees,  whipped  before; 
"  Bay 'nets  and  grape  !  "  near  Stonewall  roar ; 
"  Charge,  Stuart !     Pay  off  Ashby's  score  !  " 

Is  "Stonewall  Jackson's  way." 

Ah !  maiden,  wait  and  watch  and  yearn 

Tor  news  of  Stonewall's  band! 
Ah  !  widow,  read  with  eyes  that  burn 

That  ring  upon  thy  hand. 
Ah  !  wife,  sew  on,  pray  on,  hope  on, 
Thy  life  shall  not  be  all  forlorn. 
The  foe  had  better  ne'er  been  born 

That  gets  in  "  Stonewall's  way." 

Anonymous. 


Sullivan's  Island,  S.  C. 

BY  THE  AUTUMN  SEA. 

FAIR  as  the  dawn  of  the  fairest  day, 
Sad  as  the  evening's  tender  gray, 
By  the  latest  lustre  of  sunset  kissed, 
That  wavers  and  wanes  through  an  amber  mist, 
There  cometh  a  dream  of  the  past  to  me, 
On  the  desert  sands,  by  the  autumn  sea. 

All  heaven  is  wrapped  in  a  mystic  veil, 
And  the  face  of  the  ocean  is  dim  and  pale, 


210  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

And  there  rises  a  wind  from  the  chill  northwest, 
That  seemeth  the  wail  of  a  soul's  unrest, 
As  the  twilight  falls,  and  the  vapors  flee 
Tar  over  the  wastes  of  the  autumn  sea. 

A  single  ship  through  the  gloaming  glides 
Upborne  on  the  swell  of  the  seaward  tides ; 
And  above  the  gleam  of  her  topmost  spar 
Are  the  virgin  eyes  of  the  vesper-star 
That  shine  with  an  angel's  ruth  on  me,  — 
A  hopeless  waif,  by  the  autumn  sea. 

The  wings  of  the  ghostly  beach-birds  gleam 

Through  the  shimmering  surf,  and  the  curlew's  scream 

Falls  faintly  shrill  from  the  darkening  height; 

The  first  weird  sigh  on  the  lips  of  Night 

Breathes  low  through  the  sedge   and  the  blasted  tree, 

With  a  murmur  of  doom,  by  the  autumn  sea. 

O  sky-enshadowed  and  yearning  main, 
Your  gloom  but  deepens  this  human  pain; 
Those  waves  seem  big  with  a  nameless  ^are, 
That  sky  is  a  type  of  the  heart's  despair, 
As  I  linger  and  muse  by  the  sombre  lea, 
And  the  night-shades  close  on  the  autumn  sea. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


PORT  SUMTER.    See  page  211. 


SUMTER,    THE    FORT.  211 


Sumter,  the  Fort,  8.   C. 

TWILIGHT  OX  SUMTER. 

AUGUST  24,  1863. 

STILL  and  dark  along  the  sea 
Sumter  lay : 
A  light  was  overhead, 
As  from  burning  cities  shed, 
And  the  clouds  were  battle-red, 

Far  away. 
Not  a  solitary  gun 
Left  to  tell  the  fort  had  won, 

Or  lost  the  day  ! 
Nothing  but  the  tattered  rag 
Of  the  drooping  Rebel  flag, 
And  the  sea-birds  screaming  round  it  in  their  play. 

How  it  woke  one  April  morn, 

Fame  shall  tell ; 

As  from  Moultrie,  close  at  hand, 
And  the  batteries  on  the  land, 
Round  its  faint  but  fearless  band 

Shot  and  shell 

Raining  hid  the  doubtful  light; 
But  they  fought  the  hopeless  fight 

Long  and  well, 

(Theirs  the  glory,  ours  the  shame !) 

Till  the  walls  were  wrapt  in  flame, 

Then  their  flag  was  proudly  struck,  and  Sumter  fell ! 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Now  —  oh,  look  at  Sumter  now, 

In  the  gloom  ! 

Mark  its  scarred  and  shattered  walls, 
(Hark  !  the  rained  rampart  falls !) 
There  's  a  justice  that  appalls 

In  its  doom; 

For  this  blasted  spot  of  earth 
Where  Rebellion  had  its  birth 

Is  its  tomb  ! 

And  when  Sumter  sinks  at  last 
From  the  heavens,  that  shrink  aghast, 
Hell  shall  rise  in  grim  derision  and  make  room! 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


Smvanee,  the  Ewer,  Fla. 

OLD  FOLKS  AT  HOME. 

WAY  down  upon  de  Swanee  ribber, 
Par,  far  away, 
Dere  's  whar  my  heart  is  turning  ebber, 

Dere's  whar  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation, 

Sadly  I  roam, 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  home. 
All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary, 

Ebry  whar  I  roam, 
Oh,  darkeys  !   how  my  heart  grows  weary, 

Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home. 


TALLULAH    (TERRORA),    THE    EIVER.          213 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered, 

When  I  was  young, 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  songs  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder, 

Happy  was  I, 
Oh  !   take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder, 

Dere  let  me  live  and  die. 
All  de  world,  etc. 

One  little  hut  among  de  bushes, 

One  dat  I  love, 
Still  sadly  to  my  mem'ry  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove.    ' 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a  humming, 

All  round  de  comb  ? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming 

Down  in  my  good  old  home? 
All  de  world,  etc. 

Stephen  C.  Foster. 


Tattulah  (Terr  or  a),  the  Ewer,  Ga. 

THE  EIVER  TALLULAH, 

BEYOND  Tallulah's  giant  den, 
A  mountain  rent  by  Nature's  throes, 
Wliere,  roaring  down  the  rocky  glen, 
The  stormy  torrent  falls  or  flows ; 


214  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Its  waters  now  a  quiet  stream, 

Now  plunging  from  the  giddy  steep, 
Down  rapids  now  they  foam  and  gleam, 

In  gloomy  pools  unfathomed  sleep; 
From  the  rent  rock  you  gaze  below, 

The  heart  with  awe  and  terror  stirred, 
You  hardly  see  the  torrent  flow, 

Its  fearful  voice  is  faintly  heard; 
Half  down,  the  hovering  crow  appears 

A  moving  speck;   from  rifted  beams 
Of  granite  grown,  the  pine,  that  rears 

Its  towering  trunk,  a  sapling  seems. 

Turn  from  the  din ;  a  calmer  scene, 
More  soft  and  still,  invites  your  sight; 

Beneath  your  feet,  a  sea  of  green 

Pills  the  charmed  heart  with  new  delight ; 

Down  from  the  mountain  top  you  gaze  ; 

Tar,  deep  below,  the  verdant  maze 
Of  forest  still  unbroken  lies ; 

And  farther  yet,  a  line  of  blue 

Catches  at  last  the  gazer's  view, 
The  ocean  seems  to  meet  his  eyes; 

With  ecstasy  beyond  control 

He  sees,  while  Fancy's  magic  power 
With  witching  influence  rules  the  hour, 

The  surges  break,  the  billows  roll. 
*  *  * 

William  J.  Gray  son. 


TALLULAH    (TERROR A),    THE    RIVER.  215 


TALLULAH. 

"OECOLLECT  thou,  in  thunder 
-tv  How  Tallulah  spoke  to  thee, 
When  tliy  little  face  with  wonder 
Lifted  upwards,  rocks  asunder 
Riven,  shattered, 
Black  and  battered, 
Thou  aloft  didst  see? 

Downward  stalking  through  Tempesta, 

Did  a  giant  shape  appear. 

All  the  waters  leaping  after 

Hound-like,  with  their  thunder-laughter 

Shook  the  valley 

Teocalli, 

Hill-top  bleak  and  bare. 

Vast  and  ponderous,  of  granite, 
Cloud-en  wrapt  his  features  were. 
In  his  great  calm  eyes  emotion 
Glimmered  none;   and  like  an  ocean 
Billowy,  tangled, 
Eoam  bespangled, 
Backward  streamed  his  hair. 

On  his  brow  like  dandelions 
Nodded  pines  :   the  solid  floor 
Rocked  and  reeled  beneath  his  treading, 
Black  on  high  a  tempest  spreading, 
Pregnant,  passive, 


216  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

As  with  massive 

Portal,  closed  the  corridor. 

Frighted,  sobbing,  clinging  to  me 

In  an  agony  of  dread, 

Sawest  thou  this  form  tremendous 

Striding  down  the  steep  stupendous 

With  the  torrent: 

Night  abhorrent 

Closing  overhead. 

Then  my  heart  dissembling  courage, 
That  thine  own  so  loudly  beat, 
Comfort  thee,  I  said,  poor  trembler: 
Providence  is  no  dissembler. 
Higher  power 
Guards  each  flower 
Blooming  at  thy  feet. 

Flushed  and  tearful  from  my  bosom 

Thereat  thou  didst  lift  thy  face. 

Blue  and  wide  thy  eyes  resplendent 

Turned  upon  the  phantom  pendent* 

"Whose  huge  shadow 

Overshadowed 

All  the  gloomy  place. 

Back  revolving  into  granite, 
Foam  and  fall  and  nodding  pine, 
Sank  the  phantom.     Slantwise  driven 
Through  the  storm-cloud  rent  and  riven, 
Sunshine  glittered, 


TALLULAH    (TERRORA),    THE    RIVER.  21? 

And  there  twittered  — 
Birds  in  every  vine. 

Then  sonorous  from  the  chasm 
Pealed  a  voice  distinct  and  loud : 
"Innocence  and  God-reliance 
Set  all  evil  at  defiance. 
Maiden,  by  these 
(As  by  snow,  trees) 

Evil  heads  are  bowed." 

/.  M.  Leyare. 


TALLULAH. 

ALONE  with  Nature,  when  her  passionate  mood 
Deepens  and  deepens,  till  from  shadowy  wood 
And  sombre  shore  the  blended  voices  sound 
Of  five  infuriate  torrents,  wanly  crowned 
With  such  pale-misted  foam  as  that  which  starts 
To  whitening  lips  from  frenzied  human  hearts  ! 

Echo  repeats  the  thunderous  roll  and  boom 

Of  these  vexed  waters  through  the  foliaged  gloom 

So  wildly,  in  their  grand,  reverberant  swell, 

Borne  from  dim  hillside  to  rock-bounded  dell, 

That  oft  the  tumult  seems 

The  vast,  fantastic  dissonance  of  dreams, — • 

A  roar  of  adverse  elements  torn  and  riven 

In  gaunt  recesses  of  some  billowy  hell,  — 

But  sending  ever  through  the  tremulous  air 

Defiance,  laden  with  august  despair, 

Up  to  the  calm  and  pitiful  face  of  heaven! 


218  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

From  ledge  to  ledge  the  impetuous  current  sweeps 

Forever  tortured,  tameless,  unsubdued, 

Amid  the  darkly  humid  solitude; 

Through  waste  and  turbulent  deeps 

It  cleaves  a  terrible  pathway,  overrun 

Only  by  doubtful  flickerings  of  the  sun, 

To  meet  with  swift  cross-eddies,  whirlpools  set 

On  verges  of  some  measureless  abyss ; 

Above  the  stir  and  fret, 

The  hollow  lion's  roar,  or  serpent-hiss 

Of  whose  unceasing  conflict  waged  below 

The  gorges  of  the  giant  precipice, 

Shines  the  mild  splendor  of  a  heavenly  bow ! 

But  blinded  to  the  rainbow's  tender  light, 

Soft  as  the  eyes  of  Mercy  bent  on  Might, 

Still  with  dark  vapors  all  around  it  furled, 

The  demon-spirit  of  this  watery  world, 

Through  many  a  maddened  curve  and  stormy  throe, 

Speeds  to  its  last  tumultuous  overflow,  — 

When  downward  hurled  from  wildering  shock  to  shock, 

Its  wild  heart  breaks  upon  the  outmost  rock 

That  guards  the  empire  of  this  rule  of  wrath : 

Henceforth,  beyond  the  shattered  cataract's  path, 
The  tempered  spirit  of  a  gentler  guide 
Enters,  methinks,  the  unperturbed  tide,  — 
Its  current  sparkling  in  the  blest  release 
From  wasting  passion,  glides  through  shores  of  peace; 
O'er  brightened  spaces  and  clear  confluent  calms 
Float  the  hale  breathings  of  near  meadow  balms; 
And  still  by  silent  cove  and  silvery  reach 


TOCCOA,    THE    FALLS.  219 

The  murmurous  wavelets  pass, 

Lip  the  coy  tendrils  of  the  delicate  grass, 

And  tranquil  hour  by  hour 

Uplift  a  crystal  glass, 

Wherein  each  lithe  narcissus  flower 

May  mark  its  slender  frame  and  beauteous  face 

Mirrored  in  softly  visionary  grace, 

And  still,  by  fairy  bight  and  shelving  beach 

The  fair  waves  whisper,  low  as  leaves  in  June  — 

(Small  gossips  lisping  in  their  woodland  bower), 

And  still,  the  ever-lessening  tide 

Lapses,  as  glides  some  once  imperious  life 

From  haughty  summits  of  demoniac  pride, 

Hatred,  and  vengeful  strife 

Down  through  Time's  twilight-valleys  purified, 

Yearning  alone  to  keep 

A  long  predestined  tryst  with  Night  and  Sleep, 

Beneath  the  dew-soft  kisses  of  the  moon ! 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


Toccoa,  the  Falls,   Ga. 

TOCCOA. 

CAN  I  forget  that  happiest  day, 
That  happiest  day  of  all  the  year, 
When  on  the  sloping  rock  I  lay, 
Toccoa  dripping  near  ? 
The  lifted  wonder  of  thy  eyes 
The  marvel  of  thy  soul  expressed. 


220  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Aloft  I  saw  serenest  skies, 

Below,  thy  heaving  breast. 

On  wings  of  mist,  in  robes  of  spray 

Long  trailed,  and  flowing  wide  and  white, 

Adown  the  mountain  steep  and  gray 

"We  saw  Toccoa  glide. 

Her  garments  sweeping  through  the  vale 

Began  the  whispering  leaves  to  wake, 

And  wafted  like  a  tiny  sail 

A  leaf  across  the  lake. 

The  murmur  of  the  falling  shower, 
Which  did  the  solitude  increase, 
We  heard;  the  cool  and  happy  hour 
Filled  our  young  hearts  with  peace. 
Thou  sattest  with  a  maiden  grace, 
Thou  sawest  the  rugged  rocks  and  hoary, 
As  with  a  half-uplifted  face 
Thou  listenedst  to  my  story. 

How  many  of  the  banished  race, 
Those  old  red  warriors  of  the  bow, 
Have  slumbered  in  this  shadowy  place, 
Have  watched  Toccoa  flow. 
Perchance,  where  now  we  sit,  they  laid 
Their  arms,  and  raised  a  boastful  chant, 
While  through  the  gorgeous  Autumn  shade 
The  sunshine  shot  aslant. 

One  night,  a  hideous  howling  night, 
The  black  boughs  swaying  overhead, — • 
Three  painted  braves  across  the  height 


TOCCOA,    THE    FALLS.  221 

A  false  Pe-ro-kah1  led. 
Bright  were  her  glances,  bright  her  smiles, 
Wondrous  her  waving  length  of  hair, 
(Ye  who  descend  through  slippery  wiles, 
A  maiden's  eyes  beware  !) 

What  saw  these  swarthy  Cherokees 
In  the  deep  darkness  on  the  brink? 
They  saw  a  red  fire  through  the  trees, 
Through  the  tossed  branches  wave  and  wink; 
They  saw  pale  faces  white  and  dreaming, 
Clutched  their  keen  knives,  and  held  their  breath, 
—  All  this  was  but  a  cheating  seeming, 
For  them,  not  for  the  phantom's  death. 
Spoke  then  the  temptress  (maid  or  devil), — 
"  Let  the  pale  sleepers  sleep  no  more  ! " 
Whoop !  —  three  good  bounds  on  solid  rock, 
Then  empty  blackness  for  a  floor. 
Yelled  the  fierce  braves  with  rage  and  fright, 
With  fright  their  bristling  war-plumes  rose: 
On  these  down  fluttering,  did  the  night 
Her  jaws  sepulchral  close. 

These  rocks  tall-lifted,  rent  apart, 

This  Indian  legend  old 

To  thee,  enchantress  as  thou  art, 

A  warning  truth  unfold. 

Who  love,  mid  midnight  dangers  stand, 

To  them  false  fires  wink : 

Accursed  be  the  evil  hand 

That  beckons  to  the  brink. 

J.  M.  Leaare. 

1  Evil-Child.  ' 


222  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Vicksburg,  Miss. 

THE  BOMBARDMENT  OF  VICKSBUPG. 

FOU  sixty  days  and  upwards 
A  storm  of  shell  and  shot 
Rained  round  us  in  a  naming  shower, 

But  still  we  faltered  not! 
"If  the  noble  city  perish," 

Our  grand  young  leader  said, 
"Let  the  only  walls  the  foe  shall  scale 
Be  ramparts  of  the  dead ! " 

For  sixty  days  and  upwards 

The  eye  of  heaven  waxed  dim ; 
And  even  throughout  God's  holy  morn, 

O'er  Christian  prayer  and  hymn, 
Arose  a  hissing  tumult, 

As  if  the  fiends  of  air 
Strove  to  engulf  the  voice  of  faith 

In  the  shrieks  of  their  despair. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  houses, 

There  was  trembling  on  the  marts, 
While  the  tempest  raged  and  thundered, 

Mid  the  silent  thrill  of  hearts : 
But  the  Lord,  our  shield,  was  with  us; 

And  ere  a  month  had  sped, 
Our  very  women  walked  the  streets 

With  scarce  one  throb  of  dread. 


VICKSBURG.  223 

And  the  little  children  gambolled, — 

Their  faces  purely  raised, 
Just  for  a  wondering  moment, 

As  the  huge  bombs  whirled  and  blazed! 
Then  turned  with  silvery  laughter 

To  the  sports  which  children  love, 
Thrice  mailed  in  the  sweet,  instinctive  thought, 

That  the  good  God  watched  above. 

Yet  the  hailing  bolts  fell  faster 

From  scores  of  flame-clad  ships, 
And  above  us  denser,  darker, 

Grew  the  conflict's  wild  eclipse ; 
Till  a  solid  cloud  closed  o'er  us, 

Like  a  type  of  doom  and  ire, 
Whence  shot  a  thousand  quivering  tongues 

Of  forked  and  vengeful  fire. 

But  the  unseen  hands  of  angels 

These  death-shafts  warned  aside, 
And  the  dove  of  heavenly  mercy 

Ruled  o'er  the  battle-tide; 
In  the  houses  ceased  the  wailing, 

And  through  the  war-scarred  marts 
The  people  strode  with  the  step  of  hope 

To  the  music  in  their  hearts. 

Paul  Hamilton  Hayne. 


224  POEMS    OF  PLACES. 


Wachulla  Spring,  Fla. 

THE  WACHULLA  SPEING. 

THE  Wachulla  Spring  described  in  the  following  poem  is  situated  about 
ten  miles  from  Tallahassee,  Florida.  It  is  an  immense  limestone  basiu, 
as  yet  unfathomed  in  the  centre,  with  waters  as  transparent  as  crystal. 

TIOUNTAIN  of  beauty  !  on  my  vision  breaking, 
-1-      How  springs  my  heart  thy  varied  charms  to  greet, 
While  thoughts  of  loveliness  within  me  waking 

Fill  all  my  being  with  their  influence  sweet. 
Gazing  on  thee,  my  spirit's  wild  commotion 

Is  hushed  beneath  some  mighty  magic  spell,  — 
Till,  thrilling  with  each  new  and  strange  emotion, 
No  feelings  but  of  high  and  pure  devotion 
Within  me  dwell. 

Wachulla,  beauteous  spring  !  thy  crystal  waters 
Reflect  the  loveliness  of  Southern  skies ; 

And  oft  methinks  the  dark-haired  Indian  daughters 
Bent  o'er  thy  silver  depths  with  wondering  eyes. 

From  forest  glade  the  swarthy  chief  emerging, 
Delighted,  paused  thy  matchless  charms  to  view; 

Then  to  thy  flower-gemmed  border  slowly  verging 

I  see  him  o'er  thy  placid  bosom  urging 
His  light  canoe  ! 

Break  not  the  spell  that  wraps  this  beauteous  vision 
In  the  enchantment  of  some  fairy  dream; 


WACHULLA    SPRING.  225 

Methinks  I  wander  in  those  realms  elysian, 
Which  on  poetic  fancies  sometimes  gleam. 

Round  me  the  dim-arched  forest  proudly  towers, 
Seeming  those  light  and  floating  clouds  to  kiss; 

Oh,  let  me  linger  for  a  few  brief  hours    ' 

By  this  enchanted  fount,  —  these  wildwood  bowers, 
To  dream  of  bliss. 

With  the  bright  crimson  of  the  maple  twining, 
The  fragrant  bay  its  peerless  chaplet  weaves ; 

And  where  magnolias  in  their  pride  are  shining, 
The  broad  palmetto  spreads  its  fan -like  leaves. 

Far  down  the  forest  aisles,  where  sunbeams  quiver, 
The  fairest  flowers  their  rainbow  hues  combine ; 

And  pendent  o'er  the  swiftly  flowing  river, 

The  shadows  of  the  graceful  willow  shiver 
In  glad  sunshine ! 

Bright-plumaged  birds  their  gorgeous  hues  enwreathing, 
Their  amorous  tunes  to  listening  flowers  repeat; 

Which  in  reply,  their  sweetest  incense  breathing, 
Pour  on  the  silent  air  their  perfume  sweet : 

From  tree  to  tree  the  golden  jasmine  creeping, 
Hangs  its  bright  bells  on  every  slender  spray; 

And  in  each  fragrant  chalice,  slyly  peeping, 

The  humming-bird  its  odorous  store  is  reaping, 
The  livelong  day. 

Nature  has  here,  in  wilful  mood,  unfolded 

Her  choicest  stores,  the  wilderness  to  deck ;  — 

And  forms  of  rare  and  perfect  beauty  moulded, 
Where  no  rude  hand  her  beauty  dares  to  check. 


226  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

How  could  I  sit,  and  watch  the  waters  glancing 

In  the  calm  beauty  of  these  cloudless  skies ; 
My  vivid  fancy  every  charm  enhancing, 
And  sight  and  sound  my  senses  all  entrancing, 
Till  daylight  dies  ! 

How  o'er  the  misty  Past  my  thoughts  would  ponder, 
When  sad  and  lone  beside  Wachulla's  spring 

The  red  man,  flying  from  his  foes,  would  wander, 
And  to  the  wave  his  heart-wrung  murmurs  fling. 

Oppression  stern  his  free-born  soul  enthralling, 
He  flies  for  shelter  to  these  wildwood  haunts,  — 

And  on  the  spirits  of  his  loved  ones  calling, 

"While  murmuring  voices  on  his  ear  are  falling, 
This  descant  chants  : 

"  Great  Spirit  of  our  race !  hast  thou  forsaken 
Thy  favored  children  in  their  hour  of  need  ? 

Their  wailing  voice  Wachulla's  echoes  waken,  — 
Will  not  the  Spirit  of  their  fathers  heed? 

Sunshine  and  joy  our  own  loved  dells  are  flushing, 
But  mid  their  charms  the  red  man  wanders  lone ; 

He  hears  the  free  winds  through  the  forest  rushing; 

He  sees  Wachulla's  gladsome  waters  gushing, 
Yet  hears  no  tone  !  " 

Alas  !  sad  warrior !  by  these  silver  waters 
No  more  shall  gather  thy  ill-fated  band; 

Thy  hunters  bold,  thy  dark-eyed  lovely  daughters, 
Long  since  have  sought  their  own  loved  spirit-land. 

Yet  still  methinks  I  hear  their  voices  sighing, 
In  the  soft  breeze  that  blows  from  yonder  shore ; 


The  water-lilies  parting."    See  page  227. 


WACHULLA    SPRING.  22? 

And  wildwood  echoes  to  the  stream  replying, 
Mourn  that  the  voices  on  the  waters  dying 
Return  no  more! 

But  now  the  soft  south-wind  all  gently  wooeth 

Our  little  barque,  to  leave  the  flower-gemmed  shore ; 

And  the  light  breeze  that  perfume  round  us  streweth, 
This  fairy  basin  soon  will  waft  us  o'er; 

Then  while  soft  zephyrs,  round  us  faintly  blowing, 
Bear  wordless  voices  from  the  forest  deep, 

We  '11  listen  to  the  waters'  ceaseless  flowing, 

And  watch  the  wavelets  dancing  on,  —  unknowing 
What  course  they  keep. 

With  rapid  oar,  the  water-lilies  parting, 

Whose  snowy  petals  form  the  Naiad's  wreath, 

Soon  o'er  the  crystal  fountain  swiftly  darting, 
We  cast  our  gaze  a  hundred  feet  beneath  ! 

Between  two  heavens  of  purest  blue  suspended, 
Above  these  fairy  realms  we  float  at  will,  — 

Where  crystal  grottos  lift  their  columns  splendid, 

Formed  of  rare  gems  of  pearl  and  emerald,  blended 
With  magic  skill. 

Now  in  the  west  the  gold  and  crimson  blending, 
Tell  that  soft  twilight  falleth  o'er  the  world; 

And  on  the  breeze  all  noiselessly  descending, 
The  dew-drops  lie  in  lily-cups  impearled. 

All  thought  is  lost  in  sweet  bewildering  fancies, 
While  from  the  forest  dies  the  light  of  day; 

And  witching  silence  every  spell  enhances, 

As  o'er  the  wave  the  last  glad  sunbeam  glances, 
Then  fades  away  ! 


228  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Farewell,  Waclmlla  !  sadly  must  I  sever 
My  spirit  from  thy  sweet  bewildering  spell ; 

I  leave  thee,  fairy  fount,  perhaps  forever, 
And  mournfully  I  bid  thee  now  — farewell 

Yet  still  thy  loveliness  my  soul  o'erpowers, 
While  dreamy  shadows  on  the  forest  fall, — 

And  long  shall  memories  of  thy  beauteous  bowers 

Fall  on  my  heart  like  dew  on  summer  flowers, 
Refreshing  all! 

Catherine  Ann  Dubose. 


Washington,  D.   C. 

A  SECOND  REVIEW  OF  THE  GRAND  ARMY. 

I  READ  last  night  of  the  Grand  Review 
In  Washington's  chief est  avenue,  - 
Two  Hundred  Thousand  men  in  blue, 

I  think  they  said  was  the  number,  - 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  their  trampling  feet, 
The  bugle  blast  and  the  drum's  quick  beat, 
The  clatter  of  hoofs  in  the  stony  street, 
The  cheers  of  people  who  came  to  greet, 
And  the  thousand  details  that  to  repeat 
Would  only  my  verse  encumber,— 
Till  I  fell  in  a  revery,  sad  and  sweet, 
And  then  to  a  fitful  slumber. 

When,  lo !   in  a  vision  I  seemed  to  stand 
In  the  lonely  Capitol.     On  each  hand 


WASHINGTON.  229 

Far  stretched  the  portico ;   dim  and  grand 
Its  columns  ranged,  like  a  martial  band 
Of  sheeted  spectres  whom  some  command 

Had  called  to  a  last  reviewing. 
And  the  streets  of  the  city  were  white  and  bare, 
No  footfall  echoed  across  the  square ; 
But  out  of  the  misty  midnight  air 
I  heard  in  the  distance  a  trumpet  blare, 
And  the  wandering  night-winds  seemed  to  bear 

The  sound  of  a  far  tattooing. 

Then  I  held  my  breath  with  fear  and  dread; 
For  into  the  square,  with  a  brazen  tread, 
There  rode  a  figure  whose  stately  head 

O'erlooked  the  review  that  morning, 
That  never  bowed  from  its  firm-set  seat 
When  the  living  column  passed  its  feet, 
Yet  now  rode  steadily  up  the  street 

To  the  phantom  bugle's  warning: 

Till  it  reached  the  Capitol  square,  and  wheeled, 
And  there  in  the  moonlight  stood  revealed 
A  well-known  form  that  in  state  and  field 

Had  led  our  patriot  sires ; 
Whose  face  was  turned  to  the  sleeping  camp, 
Afar  through  the  river's  fog  and  damp, 
That  showed  no  flicker,  nor  waning  lamp, 

Nor  wasted  bivouac  fires. 

And  I  saw  a  phantom  army  come, 
With  never  a  sound  of  fife  or  drum, 
But  keeping  time  to  a  throbbing  hum 
Of  wailing  and  lamentation : 


230  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  martyred  heroes  of  Malvern  Hill, 
Of  Gettysburg  and  Cliancellorsville, 
The  men  whose  wasted  figures  fill 
The  patriot  graves  of  the  nation. 

And  there  came  the  nameless  dead,  —  the  men 
Who  perished  in  fever-swamp  and  fen, 
The  slowly  starved  of  the  prison-pen. 

And,  marching  beside  the  others, 
Came  the  dusky  martyrs  of  Pillow's  fight, 
With  limbs  enfranchised  and  bearing  bright: 
I  thought  —  perhaps  't  was  the  pale  moonlight  — 

They  looked  as  white  as  their  brothers ! 

And  so  all  night  marched  the  Nation's  dead, 
With  never  a  banner  above  them  spread, 
Nor  a  badge,  nor  a  motto  brandished; 
No  mark  —  save  the  bare  uncovered  head 

Of  the  silent  bronze  Reviewer; 
With  never ean  arch  save  the  vaulted  sky; 
With  never  a  flower  save  those  that  lie 
On  the  distant  graves  — for  love  could  buy 

No  gift  that  was  purer  or  truer. 

So  all  night  long  swept  the  strange  array; 
So  all  night  long,  till  the  morning  gray, 
I  watched  for  one  who  had  passed  away, 

With  a  reverent  awe  and  wonder,  — 
Till  a  blue  cap  waved  in  the  lengthening  line, 
And  I  knew  that  one  who  was  kin  of  mine 
Had  come;   and  I  spake— and  lo!    that  sign 

Awakened  me  from  my  slumber. 

Bret  Harte. 


WASHINGTON.  231 


SPRING  AT  THE  CAPITAL, 

THE  poplar  drops  beside  the  way 
Its  tasselled  plumes  of  silver-gray; 
The  chestnut  pouts  its  great  brown  buds,  impatient  for 
the  laggard  May. 

The  honeysuckles  lace  the  wall; 
The  hyacinths  grow  fair  and  tall ; 
And  mellow  sun  and  pleasant  wind  and  odorous  bees 
are  over  all. 

Down  looking  in  this  snow-white  bud, 
How  distant  seems  the  war's  red  flood! 
How  far  remote  the   streaming  wounds,  the  sickening 
scent  of  human  blood ! 

For  Nature  does  not  recognize 
This  strife  that  rends  the  earth  and  skies; 
No  war-dreams   vex  the  winter  sleep   of  clover-heads 
and  daisy-eyes. 

She  holds  her  even  way  the  same, 
Though  navies  sink  or  cities  flame; 
A  snowdrop  is  a   snowdrop   still,  despite  the  nation's 
joy  or  shame. 

When  blood  her  grassy  altar  wets, 
She  sends  the  pitying  violets 

To  heal  the   outrage  with  their  bloom,  and  cover  it 
with  soft  regrets. 


232  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

0  crocuses  with  rain-wet  eyes, 
O  tender-lipped  anemones, 
What  do  ye  know  of  agony  and  death  and  blood- won 

victories  ? 

No  shadow  breaks  your  sunshine-trance, 
Though  near  you  rolls,  with  slow  advance, 
Clouding  your  shining  leaves  with  dust,  the   anguish- 
laden  ambulance. 

Yonder  a  white  encampment  hums ; 
The  clash  of  martial  music  comes; 
And  now  your  startled  steins  are  all  a-tremble  with  the 
jar  of  drums. 

Whether  it  lessen  or  increase, 
Or  whether  trumpets  shout  or  cease, 
Still  deep  within  your  tranquil  hearts   the  happy  bees 
are  murmuring  "  Peace  !  " 

0  flowers  !  the  soul  that  faints  or  grieves 
New  comfort  from  your  lips  receives ; 
Sweet  confidence  and  patient  faith  are  hidden  in  your 
healing  leaves. 

Help  us  to  trust,  still  on  and  on, 
That  this  dark  night  will  soon  be  gone, 
And  that    these    battle-stains   are    but    the  blood-red 
trouble  of  the  dawn,  — 

Dawn  of  a  broader,  whiter  day 
Than  ever  blessed  us  with  its  ray, — 
A  dawn  beneath  whose  purer  light  all  guilt  and  wrong 
shall  fade  away. 


WASHINGTON.  233 

Then  shall  our  nation  break  its  bands, 
And,  silencing  the  envious  lands, 
Stand  in  the  searching  light  unshamed,  with  spotless 
robes,  and  clean,  white  hands. 

Elizabeth  Akers  Allen. 


THE  NESTS  AT  WASHINGTON. 

BEFORE  the  White  House  portals 
The  careless  eyes  behold 
Three  iron  bombs  uplifted, 
Adusk  in  summer  gold. 

In  dreamy  mood  I  wandered 

At  Sabbath  sunset  there, 
While  the  wide  city's  murmur 

Hummed  vaguely  everywhere : 

"Black  seeds  of  desolation," 
I  said,  "by  War's  red  hand 

Sown  in  the  fierce  sirocco 
Over  the  wasted  land  ! 

"Unholy  with  the  holy, 

•What  do  ye  here  to-day, 
Symbols  of  awful  battle, 

In  Sabbath's  peaceful  ray?" 

Angel  of  Dust  and  Darkness ! 

I  heard  tliy  woful  breath, 
With  noise  of  all  earth's  battles, 

Answer :  "  Let  there  be  Death  ! " 


234  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

I  thought  of  many  a  midnight, 

Where  sprang  terrific  light 
Over  wide  woods  and  marshes ; 

Tierce  fireflies  lit  the  night. 

I  saw  beleaguered  bastions 

Leap  up  in  red  dismay, 
Wide  rivers  all  transfigured 

Awake  in  dreadful  day. 

Asleep  in  peaceful  sunshine 
Glimmered  the  warlike  things : 

Into  their  hollow  horror 

Flew  tenderest  summer  wings  ! 

Deep  in  the  awful  chambers 

Of  the  gigantic  Death, 
The  wrens  their  nests  had  builded 

And  dwelt  with  loving  breath. 

Angel  of  Resurrection! 

Over  all  buried  strife 
I  heard  thy  bird-song  whisper, 

Sweetly,  "  Let  there  be  Life  ! " 

John  James  Piatt. 


WILMINGTON.  235 

Wilmington,  N.  C. 

RUNNING  THE  BLOCKADE. 

A    CHASE    IN    SOUNDINGS. 

HO  YE  in  the  stays,  she  lay, 
In  the  blockading  grounds 
Of  the  North  Carolina  sounds, 
Beleaguered  half  a  day, 
The  good  ship  Heir  of  Lynn: 
The  still  air  shut  her  in 
The  very  focus  of  light; 
Where  the  sea  grows  hot  and  white, 
As  if  it  had  turned  to  salt 
Or  solid  rock,  with  a  fault 
That  clipped  the  horizon's  edge 
In  a  long,  irregular  ledge. 

In  the  summer  of  sixty-three, 

As  still  as  they  could  be 

The  sea  and  air;  and  every 

Spar  lost  in  a  reverie 

Over  its  shadow,  under 

The  sea,  in  curious  wonder. 

Not  a  cat's-paw  turned  the  streamer, 

To  spell  at  it  letter  by  letter; 

And  for  fifty  leagues  and  better, 

You  could  see  the  smoke  of  a  steamer 

Drifting  down  in  the  offing. 

You  could  hear  the  sullen  coughing, 


236  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Over  sixty  miles  away, 
At  Wilmington  harbor  and  bay,  — 
The  pounding  of  cannon  and  mortar, 
And  the  groan  of  torpedoes  under 
The  sea,  that  came  over  her  quarter, 
Like  the  bellow  of  smothered  thunder. 

Uneasily  looked  the  master 

Now  at  the  sea,  and  then 

Off  in  a  dream  again 

Of  home,  as  the  boa's'in  cast  her 

Dipsy1  lead  in  the  shallow, 

To  a  sort  of  nasal  tune, 

Larded  with  talk  and  tallow, 

In  the  bight  of  the  afternoon; 

Drawling  from  sea-worn  topics, 

To  sudden  squalls  in  the  tropics  ; 

And  lee  shores  whose  hot  lips 

Had  opened  and  swallowed  ships, — 

Till  the  slow  talk  seemed  to  pool 

In  the  old  Annapolis  school ; 

And  the  master  was  "  Joe  "  again, 

With  his  messmate,  Geordie  of  Maine, 

Who  loved,  with  loves  like  his  own, 

Sweethearts  they  never  had  won, — 

Like  the  small  blue  flowers  that  live  but  a  day, 

Sweet  things,  in  the  inlets  of  Chesapeake  bay. 

The  skies  got  bluer  and  bluer, 
Till  the  far-off  gunboat  knew  her, 
And  came  up,  hand  over  hand, 

1  Deep  sea. 


"WILMINGTON.  237 

With  a  rushing,  like  falling  sand, 

Of  the  coils  of  her  screw  propeller, 

Like  the  rifles  that  twist  out  her  shell,  or 

The  leverage  fold  and  grapple 

Of  the  sinewy  boa-constrictor, 

While  her  stem  peeled  the  scum  as  an  apple, 

And  the  plunge  of  her  steam  beat  the  drums  of  a  victor. 

But,  like  omens  in  viscera, 

Old  Romans  sought  for; 

As  the  stars  fought  with  Sisera,  — 

Easter  and  faster, 

And  over  and  past  her, 

Swirled  the  cone  of  the  cyclone  and  fought  her. 

It  touched  the  sails  of  the  schooner, 
The  turn  of  a  sandglass  sooner ; 
And,  breaking  in  sudden  bloom,  — 
From  her  foretop  studding-sail, 
Aft  to  her  spanker-boom, 
Down  to  her  channel  rail, 
Fore  to  her  flying  jibs ;  — 
Like  a  lily  when  it  buds 
She  flowers  out  of  her  ribs, 
White  as  the  salt-sea  seeds ; 
Bobbing  about,  like  a  cup. 
Then  a  shout,  and  the  hunt  is  up. 

*  *  * 

"  A  lee  shore  and  a  squall ! 
There's  but  one  of  them  all," 
As  he  steamed  within  hail, 
Said  the  gunboat  commander, 


238  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

"  Of  all  that  I  know, 
That  would  dare  carry  sail 
To  beach  her  and  land  her, — 
Annapolis  Joe.'3 

As  swivels  of  hail 

Beat  tattoo  on  the  sail, 

And  he  looked  on  the  sea, 

Where  tempests  unchain 

Reefs  hid  in  white  rain; 

"  You  '11  want  boots  to  follow  me 

All  night,"  said  the  master, 

"  With  your  wrought-iron  roster, 

Old  Geordie  of  Maine." 

Ship  ahoy !     Heave  to  ! 
The  wind  seemed  to  wrestle 
With  steam  in  the  vessel, 
Elastic  and  pliant, 
And  wrench  the  propeller 
With  the  strength  of  a  giant, 
As  if  to  compel  her 
To  shrink  from  the  danger, 
Her  keel  timbers  ran  on; 
But  grimly  defiant, 
And  louder  and  louder, 
In  the  bursting  of  powder, 
Spoke  the  lips  of  her  cannon. 

*  *  * 

"  It 's  Joe,  to  be  sure," 
Said  the  naval  commander, 


WILMINGTON.  239 

"  And  he  's  got  a  king's  ransom  of  stores  in  his  keel ; 

I  '11  sink  her,  or  land  her 

Rawbones  on  a  lee  shore, 

To  feed  the  Sound  fishes  on  his  powder  and  steel." 

A  reef  rose  between, 

Where  the  keel  of  the  sea  seemed  to  jib  and  careen, 

And  pitch  on  its  beam  ends, 

About  which  the  water  ran  smooth  with  vehemence, 

Like  the  gates  of  a  lock  when  its  hinges  are  swung, 

And  the  bore  of  the  current  shoots  out  in  a  tongue. 

But,  taut  and  close-lasted, 

Prom  keelson  to  masthead; 

Spanker  vangs  to  spritsail-yards, 

And  flying  jib-boom, 

As  true  to  her  halyards 

As  belle  of  the  room 

When  her  feet,  to  the  click  of  the  castanets  clipping, 

Make  rhymes  to  the  music's  adagios  tripping,  — 

As  dangerously  quick  as  Herodias'  daughter,  — 

While  the  wind  kissed  her  lacings  and  whipped  round 

her  quarter, 

And  pitch-piped  its  bagpipes  as  shrill  as  a  demon, 
The  sloop  felt  her  tiller; 
Double  banked  her  propeller; 
And  rushed  at  the  sluice  with  a  full  head  of  steam  on. 

*  *  * 

But  the  fugitive  ship, 
Like  a  wild  thing  at  bay, 
That  will  double  and  slip 
From  corner  to  panel, 
Like  a  fox,  stole  away. 


240  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

The  nips  of  the  channel, 
In  shoulder  and  knee, 
Seemed  to  rise  and  bend  over  her; 
The  bellowing  sea, 
To  open  and  cover  her; 
And  where  the  surf  plunges 
Through  coral  and  sponges 
In  slings  of  the  wind  as  light  as  a  feather, 
To  rove  the  blue  phosphorous  frost  in  her  shrouds, 
The  burst  of  the  clouds, 

Mixed  the  sea  and  the  sand  and  the  sky  altogether, 
And  the  welkin  cracked  open  with  terrible  brightening, 
Till  the  bed  of  the  sea  seemed  to  bristle  with  light 
ning  ; 

And  over,  and  under 
The  clamor  of  waves,  pealed  the  toll  of  the  thunder. 

*  *  * 

So,  all  through  the  night,  in  the  darkness  they  grope. 
In  the  wash  of  the  water,  and  swish  of  the  spray, 
Clung  the  sloop  to  the  chase,  as  if  towed  by  a  rope, 
Till  the  morning  gun  slipped  it,  at  breaking  of  day. 
Tira  la,  sang  the  bugles,  —  a  fox  stole  away  ! 
Stole  away;  stole  away:  stole  away;  stole  away: 
Tira  la  sang  the  bugles,— a  fox  stole  away. 

In  Wilmington  town  there  's  a  ringing  of  bells 
As  the  people  go  down,  to  see  her  come  in, 
With  her  flag  at  the  forepeak,  as  every  one  tells 
Of  the  old  ballad  luck  of  the  ship  Heir  of  Lynn. 

If  you  ever  meet  Josey,  or  Geordie  of  Maine, 
You  will  run  the  chase  over  in  soundings  again. 

Will  Wallace  Harney. 


WINCHESTER.  241 

Winchester,    Va. 

SHERIDAN'S  RIDE. 

UP  from  the  South  at  break  of  day, 
Bringing  to  Winchester  fresh  dismay, 
The  affrighted  air  with  a  shudder  bore, 
Like  a  herald  in  haste,  to  the  chieftain's  door, 
The  terrible  grumble,  and  rumble,  and  roar, 
Telling  the  battle  was  on  once  more, 
And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

And  wider  still  those  billows  of  war 

Thundered  along  the  horizon's  bar; 

And  louder  yet  into  Winchester  rolled 

The  roar  of  that  red  sea  uncontrolled, 

Making  the  blood  of  the  listener  cold, 

As  he  thought  of  the  stake  in  that  fiery  fray, 

And  Sheridan  twenty  miles  away. 

But  there  is  a  road  from  Winchester  town, 

A  good  broad  highway  leading  down ; 

And  there,  through  the  flush  of  the  morning  light, 

A  steed  as  black  as  the  steeds  of  night, 

Was  seen  to  pass,  as  with  eagle  flight, 

As  if  lie  knew  the  terrible  need; 

He  stretched  away  with  his  utmost  speed; 

Hills  rose  and  fell ;  but  his  heart  was  gay, 

With  Sheridan  fifteen  miles  away. 


242  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Still  sprung  from  those  swift  hoofs,  thundering  South, 

The  dust,  like  smoke  from  the  cannon's  mouth; 

Or  the  trail  of  a  comet,  sweeping  faster  and  faster, 

Foreboding  to  traitors  the  doom  of  disaster. 

The  heart  of  the  steed  and  the  heart  of  the  master 

Were  beating  like  prisoners  assaulting  their  walls, 

Impatient  to  be  where  the  battle-field  calls ; 

Every  nerve  of  the  charger  was  strained  to  full  play, 

With  Sheridan  only  ten  miles  away. 

Under  his  spurning  feet  the  road 

Like  an  arrowy  Alpine  river  flowed, 

And  the  landscape  sped  away  behind 

Like  an  ocean  flying  before  the  wind, 

And  the  steed,  like  a  bark  fed  with  furnace  fire, 

Swept  on,  with  his  wild  eye  full  of  ire. 

But  lo!  he  is  ncaring  his  heart's  desire; 

He  is  snuffing  the  smoke  of  the  roaring  fray, 

With  Sheridan  only  five  miles  away. 

The  first  that  the  general  saw  were  the  groups 
Of  stragglers,  and  then  the  retreating  troops, 
What  was  done  ?  what  to  do  ?  a  glance  told  him  both, 
Then  striking  his  spurs,  with  a  terrible  oath, 
He  dashed  down  the  line,  mid  a  storm  of  huzzas, 
And  the   wave   of    retreat  checked    its   course   there, 

because 

The  sight  of  the  master  compelled  it  to  pause. 
With  foam  and  with  dust  the  black  charger  was  gray  j 
By  the  flash  of  his  eye,  and  the  red  nostril's  play, 
He  seemed  to  the  whole  great  army  to  say, 


WOODSTOCK.  243 

"  I  have  brought  you  Sheridan  all  the  way 
From  Winchester  down,  to  save  the  day  ! " 

Hurrah !  hurrah  for  Sheridan ! 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  for  horse  and  man ! 

And  when  their  statues  are  placed  on  high, 

Under  the  dome  of  the  Union  sky, 

The  American  soldiers'  Temple  of  Eame ; 

There  with  the  glorious  general's  name, 

Be  it  said,  in  letters  both  bold  and  bright, 

"  Here  is  the  steed  that  saved  the  day, 

By  carrying  Sheridan  into  the  fight, 

From  Winchester,  twenty  miles  away ! " 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


Woodstock,    Va. 

MUHLENBERG. 

THE  pastor  rose:  the  prayer  was  strong; 
The  psalm  was  warrior  David's  song; 
The  text,  a  few  short  words  of  might, — 
"The  Lord  of  hosts  shall  arm  the  right!" 
He  spoke  of  wrongs  too  long  endured, 
Of  sacred  rights  to  be  secured ; 
Then  from  his  patriot  tongue  of  flame 
The  startling  words  for  "Freedom  came. 
The  stirring  sentences  he  spake 
Compelled  the  heart  to  glow  or  quake, 
And,  rising  on  his  theme's  broad  wing, 


244  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

And  grasping  in  his  nervous  hand 
The  imaginary  battle-brand, 

In  face  of  death  he  dared  to  fling 

Defiance  to  a  tyrant  king. 

Even  as  he  spoke,  his  frame,  renewed 
In  eloquence  of  attitude, 
Rose,  as  it  seemed,  a  shoulder  higher; 
Then  swept  his  kindling  glance  of  fire 
From  startled  pew  to  breathless  choir; 
When  suddenly  his  mantle  wide 
His  hands  impatient  flung  aside, 
And,  lo !  he  met  their  wondering  eyes 
Complete  in  all  a  warrior's  guise. 

*  ,       *  * 

And  now  before  the  open  door  — 

The  warrior-priest  had  ordered  so  — 
The  enlisting  trumpet's  sudden  soar 
Rang  through  the  chapel,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Its  long  reverberating  blow, 
So  loud  and  clear,  it  seemed  the  ear 
Of  dusty  Death  must  wake  and  hear. 
And  there  the  startling  drum  and  fife 
Fired  the  living  with  fiercer  life ; 
While  overhead,  with  wild  increase, 
Forgetting  its  ancient  toll  of  peace, 

The  great  bell  swung  as  ne'er  before: 
It  seemed  as  it  would  never  cease; 
And  every  word  its  ardor  flung 
From  oft7  its  jubilant  iron  tongue 

Was,  "War!  War!  War!" 


YORKTOWN.  245 

"Who  dares"  —  this  was  the  patriot's  cry, 
As  striding  from  the  desk  he  came  — 
"Come  out  with  me,  in  Freedom's  name, 

For  her  to  live,  for  her  to  die  ?  " 

A  hundred  hands  flung  up  reply, 

A  hundred  voices  answered,  "  I !  " 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


Yorktown,  Va. 

YORKTOWN. 

FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  ? 
Hark  !  the  low  murmur :   Washington  ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Ilochambeau ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and  wheel, 
Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel; 
October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun, 
And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed:   the  gleaming  lines 


246  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines  ; 
While  through  them,  sullen,  grim,  and  slow, 
The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  banneiiess  : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  comes  ! 

Nor  thou  alone  :   with  one  glad  voice 

Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice; 

Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 

She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 

Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood 

Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 

While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear ; 

The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


APPENDIX. 
Florida. 

THE  FOUNTAIN  OF  YOUTH. 

A  DREAM  OF  PONCE  DE  LEON. 
I. 

A  STORY  of  Ponce  de  Leon, 
A  voyager,  withered  and  old, 
Who  came  to  the  sunny  Antilles, 

In  quest  of  a  country  of  gold. 
He  was  wafted  past  islands  of  spices, 

As  bright  as  the  Emerald  seas, 
Where  all  the  forests  seem  singing, 

So  thick  were  the  birds  on  the  trees ; 
The  sea  was  as  clear  as  the  azure, 

And  so  deep  and  so  pure  was  the  sky 
That  the  jasper-walled  city  seemed  shining 

Just  out  of  the  reach  of  the  eye. 
By  day  his  light  canvas  he  shifted, 

And  rounded  strange  harbors  and  bars ; 
By  night,  on  the  full  tides  he  drifted, 

'Neath  the  low-hanging  lamps  of  the  stars. 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Near  the  glimmering  gates  of  the  sunset, 

In  the  twilight  empurpled  and  dim, 
The  sailors  uplifted  their  voices, 

And  sang  to  the  Virgin  a  hymn. 
"Thank the  Lord!"  said  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

At  the  close  of  the  rounded  refrain; 
"  Thank  the  Lord,  the  Almighty,  who  blesses 

The  ocean-swept  banner  of  Spain! 
The  shadowy  world  is  behind  us, 

The  shining  Cipango,  before ; 
Each  morning  the  sun  rises  brighter 

On  ocean,  and  island,  and  shore. 
And  still  shall  our  spirits  grow  lighter, 

As  prospects  more  glowing  enfold ; 
Then  on,  merry  men !  to  Cipango, 

To  the  west,  and  the  regions  of  gold  ! " 


n. 

There  came  to  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

Some  Indian  sages,  who  told 
Of  a  region  so  bright  that  the  waters 

Were  sprinkled  with  islands  of  gold. 
And  they  added :    "  The  leafy  Bimini, 

A  fair  land  of  grottos  and  bowers, 
Is  there ;   and  a  wonderful  fountain 

Upsprings  from  its  gardens  of  flowers. 
That  fountain  gives  life  to  the  dying, 

And  youth  to  the  aged  restores ; 
They  flourish  in  beauty  eternal, 

Who  set  but  their  foot  on  its  shores!" 


APPENDIX.  249 

Then  answered  De  Leon,  the  sailor: 

"I  am  withered,  and  wrinkled,  and  old; 

I  would  rather  discover  that  fountain, 
Than  a  country  of  diamonds  and  gold." 

in. 

Away  sailed  De  Leon,  the  sailor; 

Away  with  a  wonderful  glee, 
Till  the  birds  were  more  rare  in  the  azure, 

The  dolphins  more  rare  in  the  sea. 
Away  from  the  shady  Bahamas, 

Over  waters  no  sailor  had  seen, 
Till  again  on  his  wondering  vision, 

Rose  clustering  islands  of  green. 
Still  onward  he  sped  till  the  breezes 

Were  laden  with  odors,  and  lo  ! 
A  country  embedded  with  flowers, 

A  country  with  rivers  aglow  ! 
More  bright  than  the  sunny  Antilles, 

More  fair  than  the  shady  Azores. 
"  Thank  the  Lord ! "  said  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

As  feasted  his  eye  on  the  shores, 
"  We  have  come  to  a  region,  my  brothers, 

More  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  truth ; 
And  here  is  the  life-giving  fountain, — 

The  beautiful  fountain  of  youth." 

IV. 

Then  landed  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 
Unfurled  his  old  banner,  and  sung; 


250  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  lie  felt  very  wrinkled  and  withered, 

All  around  was  so  fresh  and  so  young. 
The  palms,  ever-verdant,  were  blooming, 

Their  blossoms  e'en  margined  the  seas ; 
O'er  the  streams  of  the  forests  bright  flowers 

Hung  deep  from  the  branches  of  trees. 
"  Praise  the  Lord  !  "  sung  De  Leon,  the  sailor ; 

His  heart  was  with  rapture  aflame; 
And  he  said :  "  Be  the  name  of  this  region 

By  Florida  given  to  fame. 
'Tis  a  fair,  a  delectable  country, 

More  lovely  than  earth,  of  a  truth; 
I  soon  shall  partake  of  the  fountain,  — 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth  ! " 


But  wandered  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

In  search  of  that  fountain  in  vain ; 
No  waters  were  there  to  restore  him 

To  freshness  and  beauty  again. 
And  his  anchor  he  lifted,  and  murmured, 

As  the  tears  gathered  fast  in  his  eye, 
"  I  must  leave  this  fair  land  of  the  flowers, 

Go  back  o'er  the  ocean,  and  die." 
Then  back  by  the  dreary  Tortugas, 

And  back  by  the  shady  Azores, 
He  was  borne  on  the  storm-smitten  waters 

To  the  calm  of  his  own  native  shores. 
And  that  he  grew  older  and  older, 

His  footsteps  enfeebled  gave  proof, 


APPENDIX.  251 

Still  he  thirsted  in  dreams  for  the  fountain, 
The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth. 


VI. 

One  day  the  old  sailor  lay  dying 

On  the  shores  of  a  tropical  isle, 
And  his  heart  was  enkindled  with  rapture, 

And  his  face  lighted  up  with  a  smile. 
He  thought  of  the  sunny  Antilles, 

He  thought  of  the  shady  Azores, 
He  thought  of  the  dreamy  Bahamas, 

He  thought  of  fair  Florida's  shores. 
And,  when  in  hi§  mind  he  passed  over 

His  wonderful  travels  of  old, 
He  thought  of  the  heavenly  country, 

Of  the  city  of  jasper  and  gold. 
"  Thank  the  Lord  ! "  said  De  Leon,  the  sailor, 

"  Thank  the  Lord  for  the  light  of  the  truth, 
I  now  am  approaching  the  fountain, 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth." 

VII. 

The  cabin  was  silent:  at  twilight 

They  heard  the  birds  singing  a  psalm, 
And  the  wind  of  the  ocean  low  sighing 

Through  groves  of  the  orange  and  palm. 
The  sailor  still  lay  on  his  pallet, 

'Neath  the  low-hanging  vines  of  the  roof; 
His  soul  had  gone  forth  to  discover 

The  beautiful  Fountain  of  Youth. 

Hezekiah  Butterworth. 


252  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


j  Ga. 

THE  MARSHES  OF  GLYNN. 

GLOOMS  of  the  live-oaks,  beautiful-braided  and  woven 
With  intricate   shades   of  the  vines   that   myriad- 
cloven 

Clamber  the  forks  of  the  multiform  boughs,  — 
Emerald  twilights,— 
Yirgmal  shy  lights, 

Wrought  of  the  leaves  to  allure  to  the  whisper  of  vows, 
When  lovers  pace  timidly  down  through  the  green  col 
onnades 
Of  the  dim  sweet  woods,  of  the  dear  dark  woods, 

Of  the  heavenly  woods  and  glades, 
That  run  to  the  radiant  marginal  sand-beach  within 
The  wide  sea-marshes  of  Glynn;  — 

Beautiful  glooms,  soft  dusks  in  the  noonday  fire, — 

Wildwood  privacies,  closets  of  lone  desire. 

Chamber  from  chamber  parted  with  wavering  arras  of 

leaves,  — 
Cells  for  the  passionate  pleasure  of  prayer  to  the  soul 

that  grieves, 
Pure  with  a  sense  of  the  passing  of  saints  through  the 

wood, 
Cool  for  the  dutiful  weighing  of  ill  with  good;  — 

0  braided  dusks   of  the  oak  and  woven  shades  of  the 

vine, 
While  the  riotous  noonday  sun  of  the  June-day  long 

did  shine, 


APPENDIX.  253 

Ye  held  me  fast  in  your  heart  and  I  held  you  fast  in 

mine ; 

But  now  when  the  noon  is  no  more,  and  riot  is  rest, 
And  the  sun  doth  wait  at  the  ponderous  gate   of  the 

West, 
And  the  slant  yellow  beam  down  the  wood-aisle  doth 

seem 

Like  a  lane  into  heaven  that  leads  from  a  dream, — 
Ay,  now,  when  my  soul  all  day  hath  drunken  the  soul 

of  the  oak, 
And  my  heart  is  at  ease  from  men,  and  the  wearisome 

sound  of  the  stroke 

Of  the  scythe  of  time  and  the  trowel  of  trade  is  low, 
And  belief  overmasters  doubt,  and  I  know  that  I  know, 
And  my  spirit  is  grown  to  a  lordly  great  compass  within, 
That  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 

marshes  of  Glynn 
Will  work  me  no  fear  like  the  fear  they  have  wrought 

me  of  yore 
When  length  was  fatigue,  and  when  breadth  was  but 

bitterness  sore, 
And  when  terror  and  shrinking  and  dreary  nnnamable 

pain 
Drew  over  me  out  of  the  merciless  width  of  the  plain,  — 

Oh,  now,  unafraid,  I  am  fain  to  face 

The  vast  sweet  visage  of  space. 
To  the  edge  of  the  wood  I  am  drawn,  I  am  drawn, 
Where  the  gray  beach  glimmering  runs,  as  a  belt  of  the 
dawn, 
For  a  mete  and  a  mark 


254  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

To  the  forest-dark:  — 

So: 

Affable  live-oak,  bending  low  — 
Thus  —  with   your  favor  —  soft,    with   a  reverent 

hand, 

(Not  lightly  touching  your  person,  Lord  of  the  land!) 
Swinging  your  beauty  aside,  with  a  step  I  stand 
On  the  firm-packed  sand, 

Tree 

By  a  world  of  marsh  that  borders  a  world  of  sea. 
Sinuous  southward  and  sinuous  northward  the  shim 
mering  band 
Of  the  sand-beach  fastens  the  fringe  of  the  marsh  to 

the  folds  of  the  land. 
Inward  and  outward  to  northward  and  southward  the 

beach-lines  linger  and  curl 
As  a  silver-wrought  garment  that  clings  to  and  follows 

the  firm  sweet  limbs  of  a  girl. 
Vanishing,  swerving,  evermore  curving  again  into  sight, 
Softly  the  sand-beach  wavers  away  to  a  dim  gray  loop 
ing  of  light. 
And  what  if  behind  me  to  westward  the  wall  of  the 

woods  stands  high  ? 
The  world  lies  east :   how  ample,  the  marsh  and  the 

sea  and  the  sky ! 
A  league   and  a  league   of  marsh-grass,   waist-high, 

broad  in  the  blade, 
Green,  and  all  of  a  height,  and  unflecked  with  a  light 

or  a  shade, 

Stretch  leisurely  off,  in  a  pleasant  plain, 
To  the  terminal  blue  of  the  main. 


APPENDIX.  255 

Oh,  what  is  abroad  in  the  marsh  and  the  terminal  sea? 
Somehow  my  soul  seems  suddenly  free 
From  the  weighing  of  fate  and  the  sad  discussion  of 

sin, 

By  the  length  and  the  breadth  and  the  sweep  of  the 
marshes  of  Glynn. 

Ye  marshes,  how  candid  and  simple  and  notliing-with- 

holding  and  free 
Ye  publish  yourselves  to  the  sky  and  offer  yourselves 

to  the  sea ! 

Tolerant  plains,  that  suffer  the   sea  and  the  rains  and 

the  sun, 
Ye  spread  and  span  like  the  catholic   man  who  hath 

mightily  won 

God  out  of  knowledge  and  good  out  of  infinite  pain 
And  sight  out  of  blindness  and  purity  out  of  a  stain. 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  favor  of  God : 
I  will  fly  in  the  favor  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen  flies 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  the  space  'twixt  the  marsh 

and  the  skies : 
By  so   many  roots   as  the   marsh-grass   sends   in  the 

sod 

I  will  heartily  lay  me  a  hold  on  the  favor  of  God. 
Oh,  like  to  the  favor  of  God,  for  the  largeness  within, 
Is  the  range   of  the   marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of 

Glynn. 


256  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

And  the  sea  lends  large,  as  the  marsh:  lo,  out  of  his 

plenty  the  sea 
Pours  fast :   full  soon  the  time  of  the  flood  of  the  tide 

must  be: 

Look  how  the  grace  of  the  sea  doth  go 
About  and  about  through  the  intricate  channels  that 
flow 

Here  and  there, 

Everywhere, 
Till  his  waters  have  flooded  the  uttermost  creeks  and 

the  high-lying  lanes, 

And  the  marsh  is  meshed  with  a  million  veins, 
That  like  as  with  rosy  and  silvery  essences  flow 
.In  the  rose-and-silver  evening  glow. 

Farewell,  my  lord  Sun ! 

The  creeks  overflow:   a  thousand  rivulets  run 
'Twixt  the  roots  of  the  sod;   the  blades  of  the  marsh- 
grass  stir; 

Passeth  a  hurrying  sound  of  wings  that  nestward  whir  : 
Passeth,  and  all  is  still :  and  the  currents  cease  to  run ; 
And  the  sea  and  the  marsh  are  one. 

How  still  the  plains  of  the  waters  be  ! 

The  tide  is  in  his  ecstasy. 
The  tide  is  at  his  highest  height : 
And  it  is  night. 

And  now  from  the  vast  of  the  Lord  will  the  waters  of 

sleep 

Roll  in  on  the  souls  of  men, 
But  who  will  reveal  to  our  waking  ken 


APPENDIX.  257 

The  forms  that  swim  and  the  shapes  that  creep 

Under  the  waters  of  sleep  ? 
And  I  would  I  could  know  what  swimmeth  below  when 

the  tide  comes  in 
On  the  length  and  the  breadth  of  the  marvellous  marshes 

of  Glynn. 

Sidney  Lanier. 


New  Orleans,  La. 

OUT  OF  THE  PLAGUE- STKICKEN  CITY. 

"TTTE   will    go,   my  love,    together   to    the   golden 
*  '  autumn  field ; 

Ah  !  mellow  falls  the  sunshine  where  the  roses  blow ; 
This   day  in  wood  and  meadow  we  '11  forget  the  pale 

lips  sealed ; 
This  day  to  love  and  gladness,  whate'er  the  morrows 

yield." 

Sweet,    sweet  the  peaceful   forest  where    the    cool 
streams  flow. 

Through  the  dread  plague-stricken  city  passed  the  lov 
ers  on  their  way, 

Far  floats  the  yellow  banner  in  the  morning's  glow ; 
Through  the  ranks  of  dead  and  dying,  where  the  fever- 
smitten  lay, 

Through  the  wailing  and  the  horror  of  the  fateful  au 
tumn  day. 

Ah !  God's  wrath  lieth  heavy  where  the  south- winds 
blow. 


258  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Nay,  love,  why  gaze  you  backward  at  the  dead-cart 

in  its  round? 

Tolls  the  solemn  death-bell,  tolling  long  and  slow; 
Death   holds  the   pallid   city,  but  we  '11    cross  its  far 
thest  bound, 
And  forget  for  one  brief  hour  every  ghastly  sight  and 

sound." 
List !  that  voice  that  crieth,  "  Woe,  ye  people,  woe  !  " 

Like    children  through  the    meadows    they  wandered, 

hand  in  hand; 

Soft  the  mossy  hillocks  where  the  violets  grow ; 
They  gathered   leaf   and  flower;  but   she  wrote    upon 

the  sand, 

"Ay,    strong   is  love,  but  stronger  is  Death's  unspar 
ing  hand." 
Sad  the  under  voices  in  the  river's  flow. 

"  Why  speak  of  death,  beloved  ?  to-day  is  surely  ours ; 

Each  hour  holds  a  secret  which  the  angels  know ; 
Yon  gracious  sky  above  us,  our  feet  upon  the  flowers ; 
Why  vex  with  thoughts  of  dolor  the  peace   of  happy 
hours  ?  " 

Swift  the  lights  and  shadows  where  the  aspens  grow. 

The  air  is  thrilled  with  bird  notes,  in  the  rapture  of  their 

singing ; 
Minor  chords  are  sounding  in  the  dove's  plaint,  soft 

and  low ; 
I  am  drunken  with  the  gladness   that  Nature's  grace 

is  bringing. 


APPENDIX.  259 

Be  merry,  then,  0  sweetheart ;  list  the  woodland  chorus 

ringing." 
Far-off  bells  are  tolling  a  requiem,  sad  and  slow. 

She  closed  her  heavy  eyelids,  laid  her  head  upon  his 

shoulder ; 

Nevermore  the  dreaming  of  the  happy  long  ago. 
"  Alas  !  love,  'neath  the  flowers  I  see  the  dead  leaves 

moulder. 
I  am  chill,  so   chill  and  weary;  has   the    sunny   day 

grown  colder?" 

Autumn  leaves   are  falling,  as  the  west-winds   come 
and  go. 

Plague-stricken?     Yes,  0  lover,  for  the  Yellow  King 

has  seized  her, 
Yast  the  realm  of   shadows,  where    no  earth  winds 

blow ; 
Midst  the    bird    songs   and   the    clover  and  the  fresh 

free  air  he  claims  her. 
Vainly,  vainly  from  his   power  would  thy  frantic  love 

withhold  her. 
Weep  o'er  sweetest  flowers,  killed  by  winter's  snow. 

He  laid  her  'neath  the  aspens,  but  e'er  the  first  gray 

dawning, 

Blessed  the  peaceful  garden  where  God's  lilies  blow, 
Her  lovely  eyes  half  opened,  and  without  sigh  or  warn 
ing, 
Her  soul  beyond  the  shadows  had  sprung  to  meet  the 

morning. 
Oh,  the  blissful  morning  which  His  people  know! 

M.  B.  Williams. 


260  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Teche,  the  River,  La. 

THE  EIYER  TECHE. 

SOFTLY    the    evening    came.      The    sun    from  the 
western  horizon 
Like  a  magician  extended  his   golden  wand   o'er  the 

landscape ; 

Twinkling  vapors  arose ;  and  sky  and  water  and  forest 
Seemed  all  on  fire  at  the  touch,  and  melted  and  mingled 

together. 
Hanging  between  two   skies,   a  cloud  with  edges   of 

silver, 
Floated    the    boat,    with    its    dripping    oars,    on    the 

motionless  water. 

Filled  was  Evangeline's  heart  with  inexpressible  sweet 
ness. 
Touched  by  the  magic   spell,  the   sacred  fountains  of 

feeling 
Glowed  with  the  light  of  love,  as  the  skies  and  waters 

around  her. 
Then  from    a  neighboring  thicket    the    mocking-bird, 

wildest  of  singers, 
Swinging  aloft  on  a  willow  spray  that  hung  o'er  the 

water, 
Shook  from   his  little  throat  such  floods   of  delirious 

music, 
That  the  whole  air  and  the  woods  and  the  waves  seemed 

silent  to  listen. 
Plaintive  at  first  were  the  tones  and  sad ;  then  soaring 

to  madness 


APPENDIX.  261 

Seemed  they  to  follow  or  guide  the  revel  of  frenzied 

Bacchantes. 

Single  notes  were  then  heard,  in  sorrowful,  low  lamenta 
tion  ; 
Till,  having  gathered  them  all,  he  flung  them  abroad  in 

derision, 
As  when,  after  a  storm,  a  gust  of  wind  through  the 

tree-tops 
Shakes  down  the  rattling  rain  in  a  crystal  shower  on 

the  branches. 
With  such  a  prelude  as  this,  and  hearts  that  throbbed 

with  emotion, 
Slowly  they  entered  the  Teche,  where  it  flows  through 

the  green  Opelousas, 
And,  through  the   amber  air,  above  the  crest   of  the 

woodland, 
Saw  the  column  of  smoke  that  arose  from  a  neighboring 

dwelling ;  — 
Sounds  of  a  horn  they  heard,  and  the   distant  lowing 

of  cattle. 

Near  to  the  bank  of  the  river,  o'ershadowed  by  oaks, 

from  whose  branches 
Garlands  of    Spanish    moss   and    of    mystic   mistletoe 

flaunted, 
Such  as  the  Druids  cut  down  with  golden  hatchets  at 

Yule-tide, 
Stood,  secluded  and  still,  the  house  of  the  herdsman. 

A  garden 

Girded  it  round  about  with  a  belt  of  luxuriant  blossoms, 
rilling  the   air  with  fragrance.     The  house  itself  was 

of  timbers 


262  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Hewn  from  the  cypress-tree,  and  carefully  fitted  to 
gether. 

Large  and  low  was  the  roof;  and  on  slender  columns 
supported, 

Rose-wreathed,  vine-encircled,  a  broad  and  spacious 
veranda, 

Haunt  of  the  humming-bird  and  the  bee,  extended 
around  it. 

At  each  end  of  the  house,  amid  the  flowers  of  the 
garden, 

Stationed  the  dove-cots  were,  as  love's  perpetual  symbol, 

Scenes  of  endless  wooing,  and  endless  contentious  of 
rivals. 

Silence  reigned  o'er  the  place.     The  line  of  shadow  and 

sunshine 
Ran  near  the  tops  of  the  trees;  but   the  house  itself 

was  in  shadow, 

And  from  its  chimney-top,  ascending  and  slowly  ex 
panding 

Into  the  evening  air,  a  thin  blue  column  of  smoke  rose. 
In  the  rear  of  the  house,  from  the  garden  gate,  ran  a 

pathway 
Through  the  great  groves  of  oak  to  the  skirts  of  the 

limitless  prairie, 

Into  whose  sea  of  flowers  the  sun  was  slowly  descending. 
Full  in  his  track  of  light,  like  ships  with  shadowy  canvas 
Hanging  loose  from  their  spars  in  a  motionless  calm 

in  the  tropics, 
Stood    a     cluster  of    trees,   with   tangled    cordage  of 

grapevines. 

Henry  Wadswortk  Longfellow. 


APPENDIX.  263 


Texas,  the  Plains. 

KIT  CAKSON'S  EIDE. 

TT7E  lay  low  in  the  grass  on  the  broad  plain  levels, 
\  V    Old  Revels  and  I,  and  my  stolen  brown  bride ; 
And  the  heavens  of  blue  and  the  harvest  of  brown 
And  beantiful  clover  were  welded  as  one, 
To  the  right  and  the  left,  in  the  light  of  the  sun. 
"  Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot  to  ride, 
Forty  full  miles  if  a  foot,  and  the  devils 
Of  red  Camanchcs  are  hot  on  the  track 
When  once  they  strike  it.     Let  the  sun  go  down 
Soon,  very  soon,"  muttered  bearded  old  Revels 
As  he  peered  at  the  sun,  lying  low  on  his  back, 
Holding   fast  to   his    lasso.      Then   he    jerked  at  his 

steed 

And  he  sprang  to  his  feet,  and  glanced  swiftly  around, 
And   then   dropped,  as   if   shot,  with    his    ear  to   the 

ground ; 

Then  again  to  his  feet,  and  to  me,  to  my  bride, 
While  his  eyes  were  like  fire,  his  face  like  a  shroud, 
His  form  like  a  king,  and  his  beard  like  a  cloud, 
And   his   voice    loud   and   shrill,  as    if   blown   from  a 

reed, — 

"Pull,  pull  in  your  lassos,  and  bridle  to  steed, 
And  speed  you  if  ever  for  life  you  would  speed, 
And  ride  for  your  lives,  for  your  lives  you  must  ride ! 
For  the  plain  is  aflame,  the  prairie  on  fire, 


264  POEMS  or  PLACES. 

And  feet  of  wild  horses  hard  flying  before 
I  hear  like  a  sea  breaking  high  on  the  shore, 
While  the  buffalo  come  like  a  surge  of  the  sea, 
Driven  far  by  the  flame,  driving  fast  on  us  three 
As  a  hurricane  comes,  crushing  palms  in  his  ire." 

We  drew  in  the  lassos,  seized  saddle  and  rein, 
Threw  them  on,  sinched  them  on,  sinched  them  over 

again, 

And  again  drew  the  girth,  cast  aside  the  macheers, 
Cut  away  tapidaros,  loosed  the  sash  from  its  fold, 
Cast  aside  the  catenas  red-spangled  with  gold, 
And  gold-mounted  Colt's,  the  companions  of  years, 
Cast  the  silken  scrapes  to  the  wind  in  a  breath, 
And  so    bared   to    the    skin   sprang   all   haste   to   the 

horse,  — 

As  bare  as  when  born,  as  when  new  from  the  hand 
Of  God, — without  word,  or  one  word  of  command. 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  in  a  red  race  with  death, 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  breath  in  the  hair 
Blowing  hot  from  a  king  leaving  death  in  his  course; 
Turned  head  to  the  Brazos  with  a  sound  in  the  air 
Like  the  rush  of  an  army,  and  a  flash  in  the  eye 
Of  a  red  wall  of  fire  reaching  up  to  the  sky, 
Stretching  fierce  in  pursuit  of  a  black  rolling  sea 
Rushing  fast  upon  us,  as  the  wind  sweeping  free 
And  afar  from  the  desert  blew  hollow  and  hoarse. 

Not  a  word,  not  a  wail  from  a  lip  was  let  fall, 
Not  a  kiss  from  my  bride,  not  a  look  nor  low  call 
Of  love-note  or  courage ;  but  on  o'er  the  plain 


APPENDIX.  265 

So  steady  and  still,  leaning  low  to  the  mane, 

With  the  heel  to  the  flank  and  the  hand  to  the  rein, 

Rode  we  on,  rode  we   three,  rode  we   nose   and  gray 

nose, 
Reaching    long,   breathing  loud,   as   a    creviced    wind 

blows  : 

Yet  we  broke  not  a  whisper,  we  breathed  not  a  prayer, 
There  was  work  to  be   done,  there  was   death  in  the 

air, 
And  the  chance  was  as  one  to  a  thousand  for  all. 

Gray  nose  to  gray  nose,  and  each  steady  mustang 
Stretched  neck  and  stretched  nerve  till  the  arid  earth 

rang, 
And  the  foam  from  the  flank  and  the  croup  and  the 

neck 

Flew  around  like  the  spray  on  a  storm-driven  deck. 
Twenty  miles  ! . . .  thirty  miles ! .  . .  a  dim  distant  speck  . . . 
Then  a  long  reaching  line,  and  the  Brazos  in  sight, 
And  I  rose  in  my  seat  with  a  shout  of  delight, 
I  stood  in  my  stirrup  and  looked  to  my  right  — 
But  Revels  was  gone;  I  glanced  by  my  shoulder 
And  saw  his  horse  stagger;  I  saw  his  head  drooping 
Hard  down  on  his  breast,  and  his  naked  breast  stoop 
ing 

Low  down  to  the  mane,  as  so  swifter  and  bolder 
Ran  reaching  out  for  us  the  red-footed  fire. 
To  right  and  to  left  the  black  buffalo  came, 
A  terrible  surf  on  a  red  sea  of  flame 
Rushing  on  in  the  rear,  reaching  high,  reaching  higher. 
And  he  rode  neck  to  neck  to  a  buffalo  bull, 


266  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  monarch  of  millions,  with  shaggy  mane  full 
Of  smoke  and  of  dust,  and  it  shook  with  desire 
Of  battle,  with  rage  and  with  bellowings  loud 
And  unearthly,  and  up  through  its  lowering  cloud 
Came  the  flash  of  his  eyes  like  a  half-hidden  fire, 
While  his  keen  crooked  horns,  through  the  storm  of  his 

mane, 

Like  black  lances  lifted  and  lifted  again; 
And  I  looked  but  this  once,  for  the  fire  licked  through, 
And  he  fell  and  was  lost,  as  we  rode  two  and  two. 

I   looked   to    my  left  then, — and   nose,    neck,    and 

shoulder 

Sank  slowly,  sank  surely,  till  back  to  my  thighs ; 
And  up  through  the  black  blowing  veil  of  her  hair 
Did  beam  full  in  mine  her  two  marvellous  eyes, 
With  a  longing  and  love,  yet  a  look  of  despair 
And  of  pity  for  me,  as  she  felt  the  smoke  fold  her, 
And  flames  reaching  far  for  her  glorious  hair. 
Her  sinking  steed  faltered,  his  eager  ears  fell 
To  and  fro  and  unsteady,  and  all  the  neck's  swell 
Did  subside  and  recede,  and  the  nerves  fall  as  dead. 
Then  she  saw  sturdy  Pache  still  lorded  his  head, 
With  a  look  of  delight ;  for  nor  courage  nor  bribe, 
Nor  naught  but  my  bride,  could  have  brought  him  to 

me. 

For  he  was  her  father's,  and  at  South  Santafee 
Had   once    won   a   whole    herd,    sweeping   everything 

down 

In  a  race  where  the  world  came  to  run  for  the  crown. 
And  so  when  I  won  the  true  heart  of  my  bride, — 


APPENDIX.  267 

My  neighbor's  and  deadliest  enemy's  child, 

And  child  of  the  kingly  war-chief  of  his  tribe,  — 

She  brought  me  this  steed  to  the  border  the  night 

She  met  Revels  and  me  in  her  perilous  flight 

From  the  lodge  of  the  chief  to  the  North  Brazos  side ; 

And  said,  so  half  guessing  of  ill  as  she  smiled, 

As  if  jesting,  that  I,  and  I  only,  should  ride 

The  fleet-footed  Pache,  so  if  kin  should  pursue 

I  should  surely  escape  without  other  ado 

Than  to  ride,  without  blood,  to  the  North  Brazos  side, 

And  await  her,  —  and  wait  till  the  next  hollow  moon 

Hung  her  horn  in  the  palms,  when  surely  and  soon 

And  swift  she  would  join  me,  and  all  would  be  well 

Without  bloodshed  or  word.     And  now  as  she  fell 

From  the  front,  and  went  down  in  the  ocean  of  fire, 

The  last  that  I  saw  was  a  look  of  delight 

That  I  should  escape  —  a  love  —  a  desire  — 

Yet  never  a  word,  not  one  look  of  appeal, 

Lest  I   should  reach  hand,  should    stay  hand  or  stay 

heel 
One  instant  for  her  in  my  terrible  flight. 

Then  the  rushing  of  fire  around  me  and  under, 
And  the  howling  of  beasts   and  a  sound  as   of  thun 
der,  — 

Beasts  burning  and  blind  and  forced  onward  and  over, 
As    the    passionate   flame    reached   around   them,  and 

wove  her 

Red  hands  in  their  hair,  and  kissed  hot  till  they  died,  — 
Till  they  died  with  a  wild  and  a  desolate  moan, 
As  a  sea  heart-broken  on  the  hard  brown  stone  .  , 


268  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  into  the  Brazos  ...  I  rode  all  alone,  — 
All  alone,  save  only  a  horse  long-limbed, 
And  blind  and  bare  and  burnt  to  the  skin. 
Then  just  as  the  terrible  sea  came  in 
And  tumbled  its  thousands  hot  into  the  tide 
Till  the  tide  blocked  up  and  the  swift  stream  brimmed 
In  eddies,  we  struck  on  the  opposite  side. 
*  ,  •  • 

Joaquin  Miller. 


THE   END. 


BRITISH  AMERICA. 


BRITISH    AMERICA. 


INTEODUCTOEY. 


TO  THE  QUEEN. 

WITNESS,  too,  tlie  silent  cry, 

The  prayer  of  many  a  race  and  creed  and  clime,  — 
Thunderless  lightnings  striking  under  sea 
From  sunset  and  sunrise  of  all  thy  realm, 
And  that  true  North,  whereof  we  lately  heard 
A  strain  to  shame  us  "  keep  you  to  yourselves ; 
So  loyal  is  too  costly  !  friends  —  your  love 
Is  but  a  burthen :  loose  the  bond,  and  go." 
Is  this  the  tone  of  empire?  here  the  faith 
That  made  us  rulers  ?  this,  indeed,  her  voice 
And  meaning,  whom  the  roar  of  Hougoumont 
Left  mightiest  of  all  peoples  under  heaven? 
What  shock  has  fooled  her  since,  that  she  should  speak 
So  feebly?  wealthier  —  wealthier — hour  by  hour! 
The  voice  of  Britain,  or  a  sinking  land, 
Some  third-rate  isle  half-lost  among  her  seas  ? 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 


CANADA. 

TO  thee  we  come,  —  to  thee,  the  latest  left 
And  loveliest  of  our  daughters,  —  Cauada  ! 
Now  ours,  and  ours  alone.     The  power  of  Trance 
That  held  thee  once  is  vanished  all  away; 
And  the  fierce  strifes  are  over,  and  the  claims 
Of  angry  nations  balanced  in  the  beam 
Of  Destiny,  and  ours  is  the  award. 

Long  months  the  tide  of  battle  ebbed  and  flowed 
Upon  the  plains  and  in  the  pathless  woods, 
The  midnight  gloom  still  blossoming  into  fire, 
The  midnight  silence  broken  by  the  crash 
Of  cannon  or  the  Indian's  savage  cry. 
Till  the  steep  crags  above  the  city  walls 
Our  soldiers  scaled,  and  in  the  dead  of  night 
Heard  the  deep  river  murmuring  far  below, 
And  saw  the  watch-fires  of  the  foe  before, 
Islanded  in  by  death  on  either  side. 
But  now  upon  the  heights  in  loneliness 
Stands  a  gray  pillar,  telling  all  the  world 
That  here  died  Wolfe  victorious,  nothing  more; 
A  hero's  simple  tribute,  for  the  words 
Ring  like  a  trumpet  down  the  vale  of  years, 
And  echo  in  the  ages  far  away. 
And  thus  we  won  the  land,  and  year  by  year 
The  nations  grew  together  into  one; 
While  the  charred  ruins  mouldered  into  dust, 
And  trampled  corn  forgot  the  soldier's  heel; 
And  the  sad  memories  of  the  bygone  strife 


"  Here  as  we  mount  and  leave  the  coast  below."    See  page  3. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

Faded,  as  fades  a  foam-streak  in  the  sea, 
Or  as  a  star-trail  in  the  midnight  sky. 

And  who  but  needs  must  love  a  land  like  this, 
Where  every  passing  hour  hath  its  own  charm., 
And  every  season  its  own  loveliness? 
In  winter  the  pure  veil  of  feathery  snow 
Down  floating  from  the  sky  in  noiseless  folds; 
In  spring  the  waking  music  of  the  air, 
And  the  world  wavering  through  a  mist  of  green; 
Then  in  the  heat  of  summer  the  full  leaves 
And  the  deep  coolness  of  the  woodland  dell; 
And  last  the  forest  all  ablaze  with  pomp 
And  glory  of  all  hues,  till  cold  winds  come 
And  strew  the  gold  about  the  autumn  fields. 

Here  as  we  mount  and  leave  the  coast  below, 
Lake  leads  to  lake,  sea  opens  into  sea, 
Great  waters  hidden  in  the  land  and  linked 
Together  in  a  sounding  labyrinth, 
One  river  chain  still  running  through  them  all, 
Prom  Northern  ice-crags  spired  and  pinnacled, 
With  gable  and  gargoyle,  arch  and  oriel, 
And  subtlest  maze  of  frosted  tracery, 
Rock-based,  rock-roofed,  like  some  fantastic  fane 
Hewn  by  rough  craftsmen  in  the  days  of  old, 
And  buttressed  firm  against  the  Northern  gales. 
Erom  that  cold  clime  they  stretch  into  the  south. 
By  plain  and  forest  under  kindlier  skies. 
There  rise  the  masses  of  the  gloomy  pines, 
Marshalled  together  to  a  solid  front 
Against  the  fury  of  all  winds  that  blow. 
League  after  league  the  stately  line  goes  on, 


4  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

With  now  and  then  a  hollow  overhead 

Through  which    the  light   steals   trembling;  now   and 

then 

Some  sound  amid  the  solitude,  —  the  crash 
Of  falling  branch  or  cry  of  frightened  bird,  — 
Westwards  and  westwards  ever  till  the  day 
Breaks  dim  before  us,  and  we  stand  at  last 
Upon  the  prairie  rippled  by  the  breeze 
To  waves  and  breaking  in  a  foam  of  flowers  : 
Vast  hazy  reaches,  sloping  far  away 
To  western  mountains,  where  a  thousand  peaks 
Flush  to  the  crimson  of  the  dawn's  first  beam, 
Or  sparkle  silver  splendors  to  the  moon, 
There  rolls  the  great  St.  Lawrence  to  the  sea, 
Sweeping  by  rapids  and  by  cataract 
Whose  thunder  never  hushes,  and  the  gleam 
Of  falling  waters  lightens  night  and  day ; 
By  islands  thickly  sown  as  stars  in  heaven, 
Lying  like  lilies  on  the  river  bed, 
With  clear-cut  petals  lifted  from  the  wave, 
A  cluster  of  unnumbered  loveliness. 

There  do  they  dwell  and  labor;  there  the  axe 
Wakes  with  the  warbling  lark,  and  cheerily  rings 
The  livelong  day,  while  the  pines  shake  and  fall 
And  float  into  the  stream  to  make  their  way 
By  lake  and  river  to  the  distant  sea. 
And  there  they  plough  the  plain  and  sow  their  seed 
Till  the  swift  seasons  make  them  rich  return, 
While  the  wide  acres  glow  with  golden  grain 
To  feed  the  multitudes  of  other  lands. 
Thrice  happy  souls !  to  whom  the  passing  years 


INTRODUCTORY.  0 

Bring  little  sorrow  and  light  clouds  of  ill. 
Far  from  the  troublous  tumult  of  the  storm, 
Far  from  the  suffering  nations  ye  abide, 
Tearless  and  passionless,  and  there  in  peace 
Watch  the  long  days  go  down  into  their  grave, 
And  catch  the  dying  whisper  of  the  world. 

Alfred  William  Winterslow  Dale. 


ACA  NADA. 

LONG  ago  a  band  of  travellers 
Left  behind  the  coast  of  Spain, 
Turned  their  faces  to  the  westward, 

Sailed  across  the  storm-tossed  main, 
Crossed  the  black  Atlantic  waters, 

Landed  on  a  rock-bound  shore, 
Moored  their  argosies  and  left  them, 

That  the  land  they  might  explore. 
Sadly  turned  they  homeward,  murmuring, 

"  Aca  Nada  !  "  nothing  here. 

Nothing  here !  my  Canada  ? 

Nay,  but  we  have  wiser  grown; 
Stretching  vast  from  dawn  to  sunset, 

With  a  grandeur  all  thine  own  ! 
Rugged  mountains,  where  the  eagle 

Wheels  in  widening  circles  slow ; 
Mighty  hills  whose  peaked  summits, 

Covered  with  eternal  snow, 
Stand  like  angel  sentinels  guarding 

!Far  and  wide  the  land  below ! 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Trackless  forests,  dark  aiid  lonely, 

Where  man's  foot  hath  never  trod; 
Howls  the  wolf,  and  screams  the  panther, 

Tace  to  face  with  Nature's  God ! 
Here  the  haughty  stag,  advancing, 

Kingly  power  undaunted  sways; 
Here  the  timid  hare  bounds  fearless 

Through  the  brushwood  underways; 
In  his  native  marsh  the  heron 

Seeks  the  waters  of  his  love, 
While  in  geometric  figure 

Sails  the  wild  duck  far  above. 
Company  of  man  disturbs  not, 

All  in  careless  freedom  rove ! 

Lakes  and  streamlets  ever  changing, 

Yet  in  beauty  changeless  still 
As  when  Chaos  and  Old  Night 

Bent  obedient  to  His  will ! 
Stately  rivers,  onward  rolling 

Ever  to  the  restless  sea, 
On  their  azure  bosoms  heaving, 

White-winged  barques  ride  daintily,    . 
Laden  low  with  grain  so  golden, 

Ceres  laughs  in  happy  glee. 

Where  of  yore,  by  tideless  waters, 
Pines  their  solemn  shadows  threw, 

Curls  the  graceful  smoke  from  homesteads, 
Men  their  thrifty  lives  pursue. 

Where  in  bygone  years  the  forest 
Shuddered  with  the  tempest's  roar, 


INTRODUCTORY. 

Spreads  now  many  a  stately  city; 

Solitude  returns  no  more  ! 
Happy  country  !  happy  people  ! 

Peace  prevails  from  shore  to  shore. 


Kay  Livingstone. 


SONG  FOR  CANADA, 


SONS  of  the  race  whose  sires 
Aroused  the  martial  flame 

That  filled  with  smiles 

The  triune  Isles, 

Through  all  their  heights  of  fame ! 
With  hearts  as  brave  as  theirs, 
With  hopes  as  strong  and  high, 

We'll  ne'er  disgrace 

The  honored  race 
Whose  deeds  can  never  die. 

Our  lakes  are  deep  and  wide, 

Our  fields  and  forests  broad ; 
With  cheerful  air 
We'll  speed  the  share, 

And  break  the  fruitful  sod; 

Till  blest  with  rural  peace, 

Proud  of  our  rustic  toil, 
On  hill  and  plain 
True  kings  we  '11  reign, 

The  victors  of  the  soil. 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Health  smiles  with  rosy  face 
Amid  our  sunny  dales,      ••*•«•?» 

And  torrents  strong 

Fling  hymn  and  song 
Through  all  the  mossy  vales; 
Our  sons  are  living  men, 
Our  daughters  fond  and  fair; 

A  thousand  isles, 

Where  Plenty  smiles, 
Make  glad  the  brow  of  Care. 

And  if  in  future  years 

One  wretch  should  turn  and  fly, 

Let  weeping  Fame 

Blot  out  his  name 
From  Freedom's  hallowed  sky; 
Or  should  our  sons  e'er  prove 
A  coward,  traitor  race,  — 

Just  Heaven !  frown 

In  thunder  down, 
T  avenge  the  foul  disgrace ! 

Charles  Sangster. 

CANADA. 

LAND  of  mighty  lake  and  forest ! 
Where  the  winter's  locks  are  hoarest; 
Where  the  summer's  leaf  is  greenest, 
And  the  winter's  bite  the  keenest; 
Where  the  autumn's  leaf  is  searest, 
And  her  parting  smile  the  dearest; 


INTRODUCTO11Y.  9 

Where  the  tempest  rushes  forth 

From  his  caverns  in  the  north, 

With  the  lightnings  of  his  wrath 

Sweeping  forests  from  his  path ; 

Where  the  cataract  stupendous 

Lifteth  up  his  voice  tremendous; 

Where  uncultivated  Nature 

Bears  her  pines  of  giant  stature, — 

Sows  her  jagged  hemlocks  o'er, 

Thick  as  bristles  on  the  boar,  — 

Plants  the  stately  elm  and  oak 

Firmly  in  the  iron  rock; 

Where  the  crane  her  course  is  steering, 

And  the  eagle  is  careering; 

Where  the  gentle  deer  are  bounding, 

And  the  woodman's  axe  resounding, — 

Land  of  mighty  lake  and  river, 

To  our  hearts  thou'rt  dear  forever! 

Alexander  McLachlan. 


CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG. 

T  ISTEN  to  me,  as  when  ye  heard  our  father 
AJ  Sing  long  ago  the  songs  of  other  shores : 
Listen  to  me,  and  then  in  chorus  gather 

All  your  deep  voices,  as  you  pull  your  oars : 
Fair  these  broad  meads, — these  hoary  woods  are  grand; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  Fathers'  Land. 

From  the  lone  shieling  of  the  misty  Island 
Mountains  divide  us,  and  the  waste  of  seas ; 


10  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Yet  still  the  blood  is  strong,  the  heart  is  Highland, 
And  we  in  dreams  behold  the  Hebrides  : 
Fair  these  broad  meads, — these  hoary  woods  are  grand; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  Fathers'  Laud. 

We  ne'er  shall  tread  the  fancy-haunted  valley, 

Where  'tween  the  dark  hills   creeps  the  small   clear 

stream, 
In  arms  around  the  patriarch  banner  rally, 

Nor  see  the  moon  on  royal  tombstones  gleam: 
Fair  these  broad  meads, — these  hoary  woods  are  grand; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  Fathers'  Land. 

When  the  bold  kindred,  in  the  time  long  vanished, 
Conquered  the  soil  and  fortified  the  keep, 

No  seer  foretold  the  children  would  be  banished, 
That  a  degenerate  lord  might  boast  his  sheep : 
Fair  these  broad  meads,  — these  hoary  woods  are  grand ; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  Fathers'  Land. 

Come,  foreign  rage,  let  discord  burst  in  slaughter ! 

0  then  for  clansmen  true,  and  stern  claymore ! 
The  hearts  that  would  have  given  their  blood  like  water 
Beat  heavily,  beyond  the  Atlantic  roar : 
Fair  these  broad  meads, — these  hoary  woods  are  grand; 
But  we  are  exiles  from  our  Fathers'  Land. 
'From,  the  Gaelic. 


INTRODUCTORY.  11 


THE  CANADIAN  SPRING. 

TP  WA§  May  !  the  Spring  with  magic  bloom 
-L   Leaped  up  from  Winter's  frozen  tomb. 
Day  lit  the  river's  icy  mail; 

The  bland  warm  rain  at  evening  sank; 
Ice  fragments  dashed  in  midnight's  gale ; 

The  moose  at  morn  the  ripples  drank. 
The  yacht,  that  stood  with  naked  mast 

In  the  locked  shallows  motionless 
When  sunset  fell,  went  curtsying  past 

As  breathed  the  morning's  light  caress. 
The  woodman,  in  the  forest  deep, 

At  sunrise  heard  with  gladdening  thrill, 
Where  yester-eve  was  gloomy  sleep, 

The  brown  rossignol's  carol  shrill  ; 
Where  yester-eve  the  snowbank  spread 

The  hemlock's  twisted  roots  between, 
He  saw  the  coltsfoot's  golden  head 

Rising  from  mosses  plump  and  green; 
Whilst  all  around  were  budding  trees, 
And  mellow  sweetness  filled  the  breeze. 
A  few  days  passed  along,  and  brought 
More  changes  as  by  magic  Avrought. 
With  plumes  were  tipped  the  becchen  sprays ; 

The  birch  long  dangling  tassels  showed ; 
The  oak  still  bare,  but  in  a  blaze 

Of  gorgeous  red  the  maple  glowed; 
With  clusters  of  the  purest  white 


12  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Cherry  and  sliadbush  charmed  the  sight 

Like  spots  of  snow  the  boughs  among ; 
And  showers  of  strawberry  blossoms  made 
Rich  carpets  in  each  field  and  glade 

Where  day  its  kindliest  glances  flung. 
And  air  too  hailed  Spring's  joyous  sway ; 

The  bluebird  warbled  clear  and  sweet; 
Then  came  the  wren  with  carols  gay, 

The  'customed  roof  and  porch  to  greet; 
The  mockbird  showed  its  varied  skill; 
At  evening  moaned  the  whippoorwill. 
Type  of  the  Spring  from  Winter's  gloom ! 

The  butterfly  new  being  found; 
Whilst  round  the  pink  may-apple's  bloom         *• 

Gave  myriad  drinking  bees  their  sound. 
Great  fleeting  clouds  the  pigeons  made; 
When  near  her  brood  the  hunter  strayed 

With  trailing  limp  the  partridge  stirred ; 
Whilst  a  quick  feathered  spangle  shot, 
Rapid  as  thought  from  spot  to  spot, 

Showing  the  fairy  humming-bird. 

Alfred  Billings  Street. 


BRITISH    AMERICA. 

Annapolis  (Port  Royal],  N.  S. 

PORT  EOYAL. 

FAIR  is  Port  Royal  river 
In  the  Acadian  land  ; 
It  flows  through  verdant  meadows, 

Widespread  on  either  hand  ; 
Through  orchards  and  through  cornfields 

It  gayly  holds  its  way, 
And  past  the  ancient  ramparts, 
Long  fallen  to  decay. 

Peace  reigns  within  the  valley, 

Peace  on  the  mountain  side, 
In  hamlet  and  in  cottage, 

And  on  Port  Royal's  tide; 
In  peace  the  ruddy  farmer 

Reaps  from  its  fertile  fields  ; 
In  peace  the  fisher  gathers 

The  spoils  its  basin  yields. 


14  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Yet  this  sweet  vale  has  echoed 

To  many  a  warlike  note ; 
The  strife-compelling  bugle, 

The  camion's  iron  throat, 
The  wall-piece,  and  the  musket 

Have  joined  in  chorus  there, 
To  fill  with  horrid  clangor 

The  balmy  morning  air. 

And  many  a  gallant  war-fleet 

Has,  in  the  days  gone  by, 
Lain  in  that  noble  basin, 

And  flouted  in  the  sky 
A  flag  with  haughty  challenge 

To  the  now  ruined  hold, 
Which  reared  its  lofty  ramparts 

In  warlike  days  of  old. 

And  in  the  early  springtime, 

When  farmers  plough  their  fields, 
Full  many  a  warlike  weapon 

The  peaceful  furrow  yields; 
The  balls  of  mighty  cannon 

Crop  from  the  fruitful  soil, 
And  many  a  rusted  sword-blade, 

Once  red  with  martial  toil. 

Three  hundred  years  save  thirty 
Have  been  and  passed  away 

Since  bold  Cham  plain  was  wafted 
To  fair  Port  Royal  Bay; 


BAFFIN'S  BAY.  15 

And  there  lie  built  a  fortress, 

With  palisadoes  tall, 
Well  flanked  by  many  a  bastion, 

To  guard  its  outward  wall. 

Here  was  the  germ  of  Empire, 

The  cradle  of  a  state, 
In  future  ages  destined 

To  stand  among  the  great; 
Then  hail  to  old  Port  Royal ! 

Although  her  ramparts  fall, 
Canadian  towns  shall  greet  her, 

The  mother  of  them  all. 
*  *  * 

James  Hannay. 


Baffin's  Bay. 

THE  FATE  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 

IN  summer,  eighteen  fifty-eight, 
A  ship  sailed  out  from  Aberdeen; 
A  gilded  pet  for  summer  state 
The  little  Fox  had  been. 

But  ringing  hammers  night  and  day 
Her  coat  of  iron  mail  did  fix, 

Before  they  sent  the  Fox  away 
With  sailors  twenty-six. 

I  call  them  sailors  every  one, 

Since  all  were  true  in  time  of  need; 


16  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  very  little  band  to  run 
Great  risk  for  doubtful  meed. 

True  English  hearts  sent  food  and  drink, 
And  everything  the  crew  could  store, 

And  every  blessing  heart  could  think 
Pursued  them  from  the  shore. 

And  so,  across  the  great  salt  deep, 
From  Aberdeen  they  steamed  away; 

And,  doubling  Greenland's  ice-clogged  steep, 
Pushed  up  to  Baffin's  Bay. 

But  there  the  cruel  ice  grew  thick, 

And  hemmed  them  in,  and  hemmed  them  round; 

The  little  Fox  she  could  not  pick 
Her  way  into  the  Sound, 

Which  opens  westwards  towards  the  Bay, 

And  leads  to  endless  mysteries, 
And  kept  for  many  a  weary  day 

The  secret  of  the  seas. 

So,  being  finally  beset, 

Her  prow  was  wedged  as  in  a  vice; 
And  month  by  month  was  never  wet 

Amidst  those  leagues  of  ice. 

For  eight  long  months  seemed  motionless, 
While  game  and  tale  the  gloom  beguiles; 

Yet  she,  in  darkness  and  distress, 
Drifted  a  thousand  miles  ! 


BAFFIN'S  BAY.  17 

All  down  the  length  of  Baffin's  Bay, 
A  southern  drift  the  Fox  did  keep, 

Till  darkness  melted  quite  away, 
And  she  into  the  deep. 

A  solemn  and  an  awful  track 

That  silent  passage  seems  to  me, 
From  midnight  and  the  Frozen  Pack, 

To  sunshine  and  the  sea! 

And  then  the  gallant  little  ship 

Put  joyfully  into  the  shore, 
And  soon  her  slender  paddies  dip 

In  Northern  seas  once  more. 

This  time  the  summer  days  were  long, 

The  little  Fox  is  very  wise, 
And  soon  she  paddles,  safe  and  strong, 

Beneath  the  western  skies. 

Now  Heaven  direct  her  in  her  track, 
And  send  some  sure  and  guiding  breeze, 

Or  she  will  never  bring  us  back 
The  secret  of  the  seas. 

She  struggles  up  the  Northern  route, 
The  Northern  ice  is  hard  and  broad; 

The  little  Fox  must  put  about 
And  seek  some  other  road. 

But,  though  she  struggles  day  and  night, 
She  cannot  reach  the  wished-for  land; 


18  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  captain  and  his  men  alight 
Upon  a  frozen  strand. 

An  awful  thing  it  was  to  be 

Alone  upon  the  icy  plain, 
Which  broadens  imperceptibly 

Into  an  icy  main  ! 

And  then  they  sledged  both  east  and  north, 
And  then  they  sledged  both  south  and  west, 

Till  the  dread  doubt  which  drove  them  forth 
At  last  was  set  at  rest. 

What  did  they  find  ?     A  paper,  scored 
With  English  writing,  English  names, 

(How  long  by  English  hearts  deplored !) 
Signed  Crosier  and  Fitzjames  ! 

Scant  record  of  their  hungry  grief 

That  blotted  page  supplied ; 
But  one  faint  gleam  of  sad  relief  — 

The  day  when  Franklin  died. 

At  least  he  died  within  his  cot, 

While  kindly  eyes  were  watching  there ; 

We  know  no  tribute  was  forgot, 
They  buried  him  with  prayer. 

And  thus  the  secret  of  the  seas 

Was  yielded  to  their  quest, 
The  mystery  of  mysteries 

Was  solved  and  set  at  rest. 

Bessie  Raynor  Parkes. 


BAFFIN'S  BAY.  19 


A  BALLAD  OF  SIR  JOHN  FRANKLIN. 

OH,  whither  sail  you,  Sir  John  Franklin  ? 
Cried  a  whaler  in  Baffin's  Bay. 
To  know  if  between  the  land  and  the  pole 
I  may  find  a  broad  sea-way. 

I  charge  you  back,  Sir  John  Franklin, 

As  you  would  live  and  thrive ; 
For  between  the  land  and  the  frozen  pole 

No  man  may  sail  alive. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 

And  spoke  unto  his  men : 
Half  England  is  wrong,  if  he  be  right; 

Bear  off  to  westward  then. 

Oh,  whither  sail  you,  brave  Englishman  ? 

Cried  the  little  Esquimaux. 
Between  your  land  and  the  polar  star 

My  goodly  vessels  go. 

Come  down,  if  you  would  journey  there, 

The  little  Indian  said  ; 
And  change  your  cloth  for  fur  clothing, 

Your  vessel  for  a  sled. 

But  lightly  laughed  the  stout  Sir  John, 
And  the  crew  laughed  with  him  too: 

A  sailor  to  change  from  ship  to  sled, 
I  ween,  were  something  new  ! 


20  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

All  through  the  long,  long  polar  day, 

The  vessels  westward  sped; 
And  wherever  the  sail  of  Sir  John  was  blown, 

The  ice  gave  way  and  fled, 

Gave  way  with  many  a  hollow  groan, 

And  with  many  a  surly  roar, 
But  it  murmured  and  threatened  on  every  side, 

And  closed  where  he  sailed  before. 

Ho  !  see  ye  not,  my  merry  men, 

The  broad  and  open  sea? 
Bethink  ye  what  the  whaler  said, 
Think  of  the  little  Indian's  sled  ! 

The  crew  laughed  out  in  glee. 

Sir  John,  Sir  John,  't  is  bitter  cold, 

The  scud  drives  on  the  breeze, 
The  ice  comes  looming  from  the  north, 

The  very  sunbeams  freeze. 

Bright  summer  goes,  dark  winter  comes,  — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year; 
But  long  ere  summer's  sun  goes  down, 

On  yonder  sea  we  '11  steer. 

The  dripping  icebergs  dipped  and  rose, 

And  floundered  down  the  gale; 
The  ships  were  stayed,  the  yards  were  manned, 

And  .furled  the  useless  sail. 

The  summer 's  gone,  the  winter 's  come,  — 
We  sail  not  on  yonder  sea: 


BAFFIN  S    BAY. 

Why  sail  we  not,  Sir  John  Franklin?  — 
A  silent  man  was  he. 

The  summer  goes,  the  winter  comes, — 

We  cannot  rule  the  year: 
I  ween,  we  cannot  rule  the  ways, 

Sir  John,  wherein  we  'd  steer. 

The  cruel  ice  came  floating  on, 

And  closed  beneath  the  lee, 
Till  the  thickening  waters  dashed  no  more; 
'Twas  ice  around,  behind,  before  — 

My  God !   there  is  no  sea ! 

What  think  you  of  the  whaler  now? 

What  of  the  Esquimaux? 
A  sled  were  better  than  a  ship, 

To  cruise  through  ice  and  snow. 

Down  sank  the  baleful  crimson  sun, 

The  northern  light  came  out, 
And  glared  upon  the  ice-bound  ship, 

And  shook  its  spars  about. 

The  snow  came  down,  storm  breeding  storm, 

And  on  the  decks  was  laid, 
Till  the  weary  sailor,  sick  at  heart, 

Sank  down  beside  his  spade. 

Sir  John,  the  night  is  black  and  long, 

The  hissing  wind  is  bleak, 
The  hard,  green  ice  as  strong  as  death ;  — 

I  prithee,  Captain,  speak ! 


22  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  night  is  neither  bright  nor  short, 

The  singing  breeze  is  cold, 
The  ice  is  not  so  strong  as  hope, — 

The  heart  of  man  is  bold  ! 

What  hope  can  scale  this  icy  wall, 

High  over  the  main  flag-staff? 
Above  the  ridges  the  wolf  and  bear 
Look  down,  with  a  patient,  settled  stare, 

Look  down  on  us  and  laugh. 

The  summer  went,  the  winter  came, — 

We  could  not  rule  the  year; 
But  summer  will  melt  the  ice  again, 
And  open  a  path  to  the  sunny  main, 

Whereon  our  ships  shall  steer. 

The  winter  went,  the  summer  went, 

The  winter  came  around  ; 
But  the  hard,  green  ice  was  strong  as  death, 
And  the  voice  of  hope  sank  to  a  breath, 

Yet  caught  at  every  sound, 

Hark !   heard  you  not  the  noise  of  guns  ?  — 

And  there,  and  there,  again? 
'Tis  some  uneasy  iceberg's  roar, 

As  he  turns  in  the  frozen  main. 

Hurra !   hurra  !   the  Esquimaux 

Across  the  ice-fields  steal, — 
God  give  them  grace  for  their  charity  !  — 

Ye  pray  for  the  silly  seal. 


BAFFIN'S  BAY.  23 

Sir  John,  where  are  the  English  fields, 

And  where  are  the  English  trees, 
And  where  are  the  little  English  flowers 

That  open  in  the  breeze  ? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors  ! 

You  shall  see  the  fields  again, 
And  smell  the  scent  of  the  opening  flowers, 

The  grass,  and  the  waving  grain. 

Oh !  when  shall  I  see  my  orphan  child  ? 

My  Mary  waits  for  me. 
Oh !  when  shall  I  see  my  old  mother, 

And  pray  at  her  trembling  knee? 

Be  still,  be  still,  my  brave  sailors ! 

Think  not  such  thoughts  again. 
But  a  tear  froze  slowly  on  his  cheek; 

He  thought  of  Lady  Jane. 

Ah !  bitter,  bitter  grows  the  cold, 

The  ice  grows  more  and  more ; 
More  settled  stare  the  wolf  and  bear, 

More  patient  than  before. 

Oh  !    think  you,  good  Sir  John  Franklin, 

We  '11  ever  see  the  land  ? 
'Twas  cruel  to  send  us  here  to  starve, 

Without  a  helping  hand. 

'Twas  cruel,  Sir  John,  to  send  us  here, 

So  far  from  help  or  home, 
To  starve  and  freeze  on  this  lonely  sea: 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

I  ween,  the  Lords  of  the  Admiralty 
Would  rather  send  than  come. 

Oh!  whether  we  starve  to  death  alone, 

Or  sail  to  our  own  country, 
We  have  done  what  man  has  never  done,  — 
The  truth  is  founded,  the  secret  won,  — 

We  passed  the  Northern  Sea  ! 

George  Henry  BoJcer, 


Chaleur,  the  Bay,   Canada. 

IN  CHALEUE  BAY. 

THE  birds  no  more  in  dooryard  trees  are  singing, 
The  purple  swallows  all  have  left  the  eaves, 
And,  thwart  the  sky,  the  broken  clouds  are  winging, 

Shading  the  land-slopes  bright  with  harvest  sheaves. 
Old  Hannah  waits  her  sailor  boy  returning, 

His  fair  young  brow  to-day  she  hopes  to  bless ; 
But  sees  the  red  sun  on  the  hill-tops  burning, 
The  flying  cloud,  the  wild,  cold  gloominess 
Of  Chaleur  Bay. 

The  silver  crown  has  touched  her  forehead  lightly 
Since  last  his  hand  was  laid  upon  her  hair, 

The  golden  crown  will  touch  her  brow  more  brightly 
Ere  he  again  shall  print  his  kisses  there. 

The  night  comes  on,  the  village  sinks  in  slumber, 
The  rounded  moon  illumes  the  water's  rim; 


CHALEUR,    THE    BAY.  25 

Each  evening  hour  she  hears  the  old  clock  number, 
But  brings  the  evening  no  return  of  him 
To  Chaleur  Bay. 

She  heard  low  murmurs  in  the  sandy  reaches, 

And  knew  the  sea  no  longer  was  at  rest, 
The  black  clouds  scudded  o'er  the  level  beaches, 

And  barred  the  moonlight  on  the  ocean's  breast. 
The  night  wore  on,  and  grew  the  shadows  longer; 

Tar  in  the  distance  of  the  silvered  seas, 
Tides  lapped  the  rocks,  and  blew  the  night-wind  stronger, 

Bending  the  pines  and  stripping  bare  the  trees, 
Round  Chaleur  Bay. 

Then  Alice  came;   on  Hannah's  breast  reclining, 

She  heard  the  leaves  swift  whistling  in  the  breeze, 
And,  through  the  lattice,  saw  the  moon  declining 

In  the  deep  shadows  of  the  rainy  seas. 
The  fire  burned  warm, — upon  the  hearth  was  sleeping 

The  faithful  dog  that  used  his  steps  to  follow. 
"  3T  is  almost  midnight,"  whispered  Alice,  weeping, 

While  blew  the  winds  more  drearily  and  hollow 
O'er  Chaleur  Bay. 

No  organ  stands  beneath  the  bust  of  Pallas, 

No  painted  Marius  to  the  ruin  clings, 
No  Ganymede,  borne  up  from  airy  Hellas, 

Looks  through  the  darkness  'neath  the  eagles'  wings. 
But  the  sweet  pictures  from  the  shadowed  ceiling 

Reflect  the  firelight  near  old  Hannah's  chair, — 
One  a  fair  girl  with  features  full  of  feeling, 

And  one  a  boy,  a  fisher,  young  and  fair, 
Of  Chaleur  Bay. 


26  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

That  boy  returns  with  humble  presents  laden, 

For  on  the  morrow  is  his  wedding  morn; 
To  the  old  church  he  hopes  to  lead  the  maiden 

Whose  head  now  rests  his  mother's  breast  upon. 
Now  Hannah  drops  her  cheek  —  the  maiden  presses  — 

"He  will  return  when  come  the  morning  hours, 
And  he  will  greet  thee  with  his  fond  caresses, 

And  thou  shalt  meet  him  diademed  with  flowers," 
Sweet  Chaleur  Bay  ! 

Gray  was  the  morning,  but  a  light  more  tender 

Parted  at  last  the  storm-clouds'  lingering  glooms, 
The  sun  looked  forth  in  mellowness  and  splendor, 

Drying  the  leaves  amid  the  gentian  blooms, 
And  wrecks  came  drifting  to  the  sandy  reaches, 

As  inward  rolled  the  tide  with  sullen  roar; 
The  fishers  wandered  o'er  the  sea-washed  beaches 

And  gathered  fragments  as  they  reached  the  shore 
Of  Chaleur  Bay. 

Then  Alice,  with  the  village  maidens  roaming 

Upon  the  beaches  where  the  breakers  swirl, 
Espied  a  fragment  mid  the  waters  foaming, 

And  found  a  casket,  overlaid  with  pearl. 
It  was  a  treasure.     "  Happy  he  who  claimed  it," 

A  maiden  said;    "'tis  worthy  of  a  bride." 
Another  maid  "the  ocean's  dowry"  named  it, 

But  gentle  Alice,  weeping,  turned  aside  — 
Sad  Chaleur  Bay  !  - 

And  went  to  Hannah  with  the  new-found  treasure, 
And  stood  again  beside  the  old  arm-chair; 


CHALEUR,    THE    BAY.  27 

The  maids  stood  round  her  radiant  with  pleasure, 
And  playful  wove  the  gentians  in  her  hair. 

Then  Hannah  said,  her  feelings  ill  dissembling, 
"  Some  sailor  lad  this  treasure  once  possessed ; 

And  now,  perhaps,"  she  added,  pale  and  trembling, 
"His  form  lies  sleeping  'neath  the  ocean's  breast, 
In  Chaleur  Bay." 

Now  on  her  knee  the  opened  box  she  places,  — 

Her  trembling  hand  falls  helpless  to  her  breast, 
Into  her  face  look  up  two  pictured  faces, 

The  faces  that  her  sailor-boy  loved  best. 
One  picture  bears  the  written  words,  "  My  Mother," 

Old  Hannah  drops  her  wrinkled  cheek  in  pain; 
"  Alice  "  —  sweet  name  —  is  writ  beneath  the  other,  — 

Old  Hannah's  tears  fall  over  it  like  rain  — 
Dark  Chaleur  Bay ! 

The  spring  will  come,  the  purple  swallow  bringing, 

The  green  leaves  glitter  where  the  gold  leaves  fell, 
But  nevermore  the  time  of  flowers  and  singing 

Will  hope  revive  in  her  poor  heart  to  dwell. 
Life  ne'er  had  brought  to  her  so  dark  a  chalice, 

But  from  her  lips  escaped  no  bitter  groan ; 
They  mid  the  gentians  made  the  grave  of  Alice, 

And  Hannah  lives  in  her  old  cot  alone 
On  Chaleur  Bay. 

HezeJciah  B/itterworth. 


28  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Elora,   Canada. 

ELORA. 

OLOYELY  Elora!   thy  valley  and  stream 
Still  dwell  in  my  heart  like  a  beautiful  dream; 
And  everything  peaceful  and  gentle  I  see 
Brings  back  to  my  bosom  some  image  of  thee. 
I  've  roamed  this  Dominion  allured  by  the  beam 
Of  wild  woodland  beauty  by  valley  and  stream ; 
From  lone  Manitoulin  all  down  to  the  sea; 
But  found  not  a  spot,  sweet  Elora,  like  thee. 

There  's  lone  rocky  grandeur  away  at  the  Sound, 
And  down  the  St.  Lawrence  wild  beauties  abound ; 
Quebec,  towering  proudly,  looks  down  on  the  sea, 
And  lone  Gananoque,  there's  beauty  in  thee; 
And  Barrie,  the  lady  that  sits  by  the  lake, 
Oh,  would  I  could  sing  a  sweet  song  for  her  sake ! 
But  here  in  thy  beauty  a-listening  the  fall, 

0  lovely  Elora !   thou  'rt  queen  of  them  all. 

If  friends  should  forsake  me,  or  fortune  depart, 

Or  love  fly  and  leave  a  great  void  in  my  heart, 

Oh,  then  in  my  sorrow  away  I  would  flee 

And  hide  from  misfortune,  Elora,  in  thee. 

Away  from  the  world,  with  its  falsehood  and  pride, 

In  yon  lowly  cot  where  the  smooth  waters  glide, 

1  'd  with  Nature  commune  till  death  set  me  free, 
And  rest  then  forever,  Elora,  in  thee. 

Alexander  McLachlan. 


"  There,  riding  like  sea-gulls,  with  wings  at  rest.1'    See  page  29. 


GEORGE'S  BANK.  59 

George's  Bank. 

ON  GEORGE'S  BANK. 

niWO  hundred  miles  to  the  south-southeast 
J-   On  George's  the  billows  foam  like  yeast. 
O'er  shallow  banks,  where  on  every  side 
Lies  peril  of  billow,  shoal,  and  tide. 
There,  riding  like  sea-guils  with  wings  at  rest, 
Cape  Ann's  swift  schooners  the  sharp  seas  breast, 
With  their  straining  cables  reaching  down 
Where  the  anchors  clutch  at  the  sea-sands  brown. 

There  gather  when  shorten  the  wintry  days 

The  fish  of  a  thousand  shallow  bays. 

There  men  of  a  score  of  races  reap 

Their  dear-bought  harvest,  while  billows  sweep, 

And  drear  fogs  gather,  and  tempests  blow 

O'er  the  fatal  sands  which  shift  below 

The  eVer-angry  sea,  which  laves 

A  thousand  wrecks  and  a  myriad  graves. 

Yet.  merrily  still  they  fish,  nor  reck 

Of  the  piercing  cold  or  the  wave-swept  deck; 

And  the  warning  fog-horn,  the  bell's  sad  tone, 

Wakens  no  thought  of  knell  or  moan 

In  those  sturdy  fishermen,  brave  and  free, 

As  they  mournfully  challenge  the  fog-veiled  sea, 

Though  there  scarce  is  one  but  has  shed  a  tear 

For  comrade  or  friend  who  has  perished  there. 

As  the  veteran  leaps  to  the  battle-torn  rank, 


30  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

As  the  frigate  steams  in  Avliere  her  consort  sank, 
So  when  maidens  are  weeping,  and  widows  are  pale, 
New  vessels  are  manned  for  those  lost  in  the  gale. 
The  orphan  fears  not  the  restless  wave 
Which  gave  him  food,  and  his  sire  a  grave ; 
And  the  soulless  veteran  soundly  sleeps, 
Rocked  by  the  rough  sea  which  sullenly  sweeps 
O'er  the  bones  of  comrade,  brother,  and  son, 
Whose  long,  hard,  perilous  task  is  done. 

If  the  coveted  water,  by  David  outpoured 

As  an  offering  purchased  with  blood,  to  the  Lord, 

Was  too  rare  for  a  king,  truly  precious  must  be 

The  coarse  fare  these  wring  from  the  pitiless  sea. 

Unnoted,  the  fishermen  live  and  die 

Mid  the  ravening  waves,  while  the  pitiless  sky 

Shuts  out  e'en  man's  pitying  glance.     As  yet 

No  squadron  in  war's  fiercest  tempest  has  met 

Such  remediless  loss,  and  such  utter  defeat 

As  the  men  who  ship  in  the  "  George's  Fleet." 

C.  W.  Hall. 


Grand  Pr'e,  N.  S. 

GRAND  PRE. 

IN  the  Acadian  land,  on  the  shores   of  the  Basin  of 
Minas, 

Distant,  secluded,  still,  the  little  village  of  Grand  Pre 
Lay  in  the  fruitful  valley.     Yast  meadows  stretched  to 
the  eastward, 


GRAND    PRE.  31 

Giving  the  village  its  name,  and  pasture  to  flocks  with 
out  number. 
Dikes,  that  the  hands  of  the  farmers  had   raised  with 

labor  incessant, 
Shut  out  the  turbulent  tides  ;  but  at  stated  seasons  the 

flood-gates 
Opened,  and  welcomed  the  sea  to  wander  at  will  o'er 

the  meadows. 
West  and  south  there  were  fields  of  flax,  and  orchards 

and  cornfields 
Spreading  afar  and  unfenced  o'er  the  plain;  and  away 

to  the  northward 
Blomidon  rose,  and  the  forests    old,  and    aloft   on  the 

mountains 
Sea-fogs  pitched  their  tents,  and  mists  from  the  mighty 

Atlantic 

Looked  on  the  happy  valley,  but  ne'er  from  their  sta 
tion  descended. 
There,  in  the  midst  of  its  farms,  reposed  the   Acadian 

village. 
Strongly  built  were  the  houses,  witli  frames  of  oak  and 

of  hemlock, 
Such  as  the  peasants  of  Normandy  built   hi  the  reign 

of  the  Henrys. 
Thatched   were   the  roofs,   with   dormer-windows ;  and 

gables  projecting 
Over    the  basement    below    protected    and   shaded  the 

doorway. 
There  in  the  tranquil  evenings  of  summer,  when  brightly 

the  sunset 
Lighted  the  village  street,  and  gilded  the  vanes  on  the 

chimneys, 


32  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Matrons  and  maidens  sat  in  snow-white   caps  and  in 

kirtles 
Scarlet  and  blue  and  green,  with  distaffs  spinning  the 

golden 
Flax   for   the    gossiping  looms,  whose   noisy    shuttles 

within  doors 
Mingled  their  sound  with  the  whir  of  the  wheels  and 

the  songs  of  the  maidens. 
Solemnly  down  the  street  came  the  parish  priest,  and 

the  children 
Paused  iu  their  play  to  kiss  the  hand  he  extended  to 

bless  them. 
Reverend  walked  he  among  them ;  and  up  rose  matrons 

and  maidens, 
Hailing  his  slow  approach  with  words    of   affectionate 

welcome. 

Then  came  the  laborers   home  from  the  field,  and  se 
renely  the  sun  sank 
Down  to  his  rest,  and  twilight  prevailed.     Anon  from 

the  belfry 
Softly  the  Angelus  sounded,  and  over  the  roofs  of  the 

village 
Columns  of  pale    blue    smoke,  like  clouds    of    incense 

ascending, 
Rose  from  a  hundred  hearths,  the  homes  of  peace  and 

contentment. 
Thus    dwelt    together    in   love    these   simple    Acadian 

farmers,  — 
Dwelt  in  the  love  of   God    and    of  man.     Alike  were 

they  free  from 
Fear,  that  reigns  with  the  tyrant,  and  envy,  the  vice 

of  republics. 


GRAND  PR£.  33 

Neither  locks  had  they  to  their  doors,  nor  bars  to  their 

windows ; 
But  their  dwellings  were  open  as   day  and  the  hearts 

of  the  owners  : 
There  the  richest  was  poor,  and  the  poorest  lived  in 

abundance. 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


GRAND  PEE. 

GRAND  PRIi; !  whose  level  meadows  stretch  away, 
Ear  up  the  deep-cut  dikes  thy  waves  roll  on, 
Free,  as  a  hundred  years  ago  to-day, 

They  climb  the  slopes  of  rocky  Blomidon. 

These  lonely  poplars,  reared  by  sons  of  toil, 
Look  out  like  exiles  o'er  a  foreign  sea, 

Their  haggard  fronts  grown  gray  on  alien  soil, 
Par  from  the  province  of  fair  Lombardy. 

Long- vanished  forms  come  thronging  up  the  strand; 

I  close  my  eyes  to  see  the  vision  pass, 
As  one  shuts  out  the  daylight  with  his  hand, 

To  view  the  pictures  in  a  magic  glass. 

This  is  the  little  village  famed  of  yore, 

With  meadows  rich  in  flocks  and  plenteous  grain, 

Whose  peasants  knelt  beside  each  vine-clad  door, 
As  the  sweet  Angelus  rose  o'er  the  plain. 

High-hearted,  brave,  of  gentle  Norman  blood, 
Their  thrifty  life  a  prospering  fame  did  bring; 


34  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

They  held  the  reins  o'er  peaceful  field  and  flood, 
Lords  of  their  lands,  and  rivals  of  a  king. 

By  kingly  rale,  an  exile's  lot  they  bore, 

The  poet's  song  reclaims  their  scattered  fold; 

Blown  in  melodious  notes  to  every  shore, 
The  story  of  their  mournful  fate  is  told. 

And  to  their  annals  linked  while  time  shall  last^ 
Two  lovers  from  a  shadowy  realm  are  seen, 

A  fair,  immortal  picture  of  the  past, 
The  forms  of  Gabriel  and  Evangeline. 

And  hither  shall  that  sweet  remembrance  bring 
Eull  many  a  pilgrim  as  the  years  roll  on, 

While  the  lone  bittern  pauses  on  the  wing, 
Above  the  crest  of  rocky  Blomidon. 

Still  over  "wave  and  meadow  smiles  the  day, 
The  twilight  deepens,  and  the  time  is  brief, 

I  bid  farewell  to  beautiful  Grand  Pre, 

While  yet  on  summer's  heart  bloom  flower  and  leaf. 

Sarah  D.  Clark. 


Halifax,  the  Harbor,  N.  S. 

D'ANYILLE'S  FLEET. 

Tp  WAS  in  the  month  October, 

JL     On  an  Indian  summer  day, 

That  a  fleet  of  foreign  war-ships 

Sailed  up  Chebucto  Bay,  — 


HALIFAX,    THE    HARBOR.  35 

On  the  waters  of  the  Basin, 
Scarce  heaving  there  they  lay. 

The  ships  seemed  old  and  storm-beat, 

Their  canvas  was  in  strips, 
The  rust  of  smoke  and  ocean  spray 
Hung  on  the  camions'  lips, 

And  in  the  lull,  the  fleur-de-lys 
Hung  drooping  o'er  the  ships. 

There  were  but  seventeen 'vessels, 

As  our  traditions  tell, 
Of  seventy  sail  that  three  months  since 
Sailed  out  of  gay  Rochelle, 

Yet  skilful  were  the  captains, 
And  they  sailed  their  vessels  well. 

But  fogs  uprose,  with  never  a  noon, 

For  clouds  upclomb  the  heights, 
And  then  would  fall,  as  dark  as  pall, 
The  long  Atlantic  nights, 

Save  for  the  north-wind's  harbinger, 
The  bright  auroral  lights. 

Whereby  from  out  the  nor'west  cloud 

Would  storm  come  on  to  blow, 
And  in  the  wrack  tall  mast  would  crack, 
Till,  shattered  aloft  and  low, 

The  gallant  hulls  like  wearied  things 
Lay  rocking  to  and  fro. 

Four  enemies  had  that  struggling  fleet,  — 
The  tempest  and  the  sea, 


36  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

The  English  ships  and  the  pestilence, 
They  might  have  withstood  the  three, 

But  the  angel  of  death  sailed  with  the  ships, 
And  preyed  there  silently. 
*  *  * 

Brave  men  !  but  yet  stout  hearts  grew  faint, 

For  whispers  dark  and  vague, 
Of  spectres  such  as  legends  tell 
Beleaguered  the  walls  of  Prague, 

Crept  man  to  man,  for  men  knew  then 
On  board  them  was  the  plague ! 

At  even-fire  the  bells  were  rung, 

To  cast  to  the  deep  their  dead; 
At  morning  gun  death's  rites  begun,  — 
The  sheet  and  the  weight  of  lead ; 

And  all  day  long  the  dying  groan 
Told  another  vacant  bed. 

The  gunner  who  fired  the  sunrise  gun, 

With  a  comrade  by  his  side, 
Ere  eight  bells  tolled  the  hour  of  noon, 
Was  drifting  out  on  the  tide; 

And  his  comrade  ere  the  day  was  done 
Was  ta'en  with  the  plague  and  died. 

And  so  from  wearisome  day  to  day 
The  pestilence  walked  the  decks, 
Till  hands  were  so  few  that  scarce  a  crew 
Could  man  those  floating  specks, 
_  And  at  length,  when  they  lay  in  Chebucto  Bay, 
They  were  little  but  death  and  wrecks. 


HALIFAX,    THE    HARBOR.  37 

Of  seventy  sail  of  armed  ships 

That  were  fitted  out  iii  June, 
But  seventeen  sail  made  up  the  tale, — 
With  their  Admiral  sick,  —  that  noon ; 

And  there,  the  shattered  hulks,  they  lay- 
In  form  of  a  half-moon. 

Arrived  at  last,  men  glances  cast 
At  the  coast  of  rock  and  tree, 
While  thoughts  of  home  came  winging  fast 
From  over  the  sorrowful  sea, 

And  the  little  sailor-boy  up  on  the  mast, 
Up  on  the  mast  sang  he: 

"My  cousin  spinning  at  her  wheel, 

My  sister  Nanette's  tread, 
As  watches  she  so  kind  and  leal 

By  my  sick  mother's  bed,  — 
Ah !  do  they  in  their  evening  prayer 
Pray  God  and  Mary  for  me? 

Oh,  never  again !  Oh,  never  again ! 
My  home  in  Picardie  !  " 

Kneeling,  the  Admiral  sadly  prayed, 

And  sadly  himself  he  crossed  : 
"My  soul  to  God  and  my  sword  to  the  King, 
And  tell  him  that  all  is  lost. 

Oh,  weary  my  life  !  Oh,  weary  my  death ! 
Oh,  weary  and  tempest-tost !  " 

Next  morn  the  Admiral's  barge  of  state 
Was  rowed  adown  the  Bay, 


38  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  in  it,  wrapped  in  the  flag  of  France, 
The  Admiral  D'Anville  lay, 

And  sad  the  boom  of  his  funeral  gnns 
Made  the  heart  of  the  fleet  that  day. 

Then  cried  the  Seigneur  d'Estournelle  : 

"  Shall  I  command  this  host? 
Shall  I  go  back  to  gallant  Trance 
And  say  that  all  is  lost? 

No  !  weary  my  life  !  Oh,  weary  my  death, 
Oh,  weary  and  tempest-tost ! " 

Again  the  Admiral's  barge  of  state 

Was  rowed  adown  the  Bay, 
And  in  it,  wrapped  in  the  flag  of  France, 
Sieur  d'Estournelle  he  lay, 

And  sad  the  sound  of  his  funeral  guns 
Made  the  heart  of  the  fleet  that  day. 

Then  spoke  the  crews  among  themselves: 

"Is  this  without  remede? 
Ho  !  Scotsman,  Sieur  de  Ramsay, 
St.  Andre  be  thy  speed ! 

Now  that  the  Admiral's  dead  and  gone, 
You  help  us  in  our  need ! " 

Up  spake  the  Sieur  de  Ramsay: 

"  Make  ready  to  advance  ! 
This  is  the  hand  of  God,  my  men, 
And  not  the  work  of  chance; 

And  by  God's  help  and  St.  Denis, 
I  '11  take  this  fleet  to  France ! 


HALIFAX,    THE    HARBOR.  39 

"  Ho !  mates,  there  !  beat  to  quarters,  — 

Tell  off  eacli  man  and  gun, — 
Fire  wrecks !  the  rest  make  sailing-trim 
Ere  rising  of  the  sun,  — 

Who  is  there  fears  to  follow  me  ? 
Who  ?  Men  of  Trance  ?     Not  one  ! " 

All  night  the  forges'  sparkles  flew, 

All  night  rang  hammers'  clank, 

All  night  the  boat  and  swift  canoe 

Plied  to  and  from  the  bank,  — 

When  morning  broke  the  shattered  fleet 
Was  rearranged  in  rank. 

With  swelling  hearts,  yet  steady  front, 

They  turned  them  to  the  west; 
The  pine  grove  lay  in  its  shadows  gray 
Above  their  comrades'  rest. 

And  the  wrecks,  a  fleet  of  fire  they  lay 
Reddening  the  water's  breast. 

Last  look  all  took  of  the  burning  ships 

Lit  up  in  fitful  glow, 

The  tongues  of  flame  they  whistled  and  moaned 
As  the  breeze  came  on  to  blow, 

And  the  sigh  of  the  trees  o'er  the  buried  dead 
Sang  requiem  soft  and  low. 


God  sain  thy  soul,  O  Due  d'Anville  ! 
D'Estournelle,  Christ  thee  save  ! 


40  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

May  clement  Heaven  benignant  be 
To  all  ye  Frenchmen  brave, 

Though  naught  now  shows  your  resting-place, 
No  caim  to  mark  your  grave, — 

Naught  save,  in  hollow  of  a  hill, 

A  bed  of  lichened  stones, 
With  scattered  tufts  of  herbage  sown, 
And  necked  with  pine-tree  cones 

From  stunted  trees,  whose  prying  roots 
Grope  among  dead  men's  bones. 

Yet,  sometimes,  some  stray  thinkers 
Take  boat,  and  downwards  glance 
Where,  blue  as  Mediterranean, 
"  The  Basin's  "  waters  dance, 

And  see  the  ribs  of  d'Anville's  fleet, 
The  Armada  of  fair  France. 

Hunter  Duvar. 


Huron,  the  Lake. 

LAKE  HURON, 

WE  cannot  boast  of  high  green  hills, 
Of  proud,  bold  cliffs,  where  eagles  gather, 
Of  moorland  glen  and  mountain  rills, 
That  echo  to  the  red-belled  heather. 
We  cannot  boast  of  mouldering  towers, 
Where  ivy  clasps  the  hoary  turret,  — 


And  we  have  streams  that  run  as  clear."    See  page  41 


HURON,    THE    LAKE.  4i 

Of  chivalry  in  ladies'  bowers,  — 

Of  warlike  fame,  and  knights  who  won  ii,-^- 

But  had  we  minstrel's  harp  to  wake, 

We  well  might  boast  our  own  broad  lake? 

And  we  have  streams  that  run  as  clear, 

O'er  shelvy  rocks  and  pebbles  rushing, 

And  meads  as  green,  and  nymphs  as  dear> 

In  rosy  beauty  sweetly  blushing; 

And  we  have  trees  as  tall  as  towers, 

And  older  than  the  feudal  mansion, 

And  banks  besprent  with  gorgeous  flowers, 

And  glens  and  woods  with  fireflies  glancing,  — 

But  prouder,  loftier  boast  we  make, 

The  beauties  of  our  own  broad  lake. 

The  lochs  and  lakes  of  other  lands, 

Like  gems,  may  grace  a  landscape  painting, 

Or  where  the  lordly  castle  stands, 

May  lend  a  charm  when  charms  are  wanting; 

But  ours  is  deep  and  broad  and  wide, 

With  steamships  through  its  waves  careering, 

And  far  upon  its  ample  tide 

The  bark  its  devious  course  is  steering; 

While  hoarse  and  loud  the  billows  break 

On  islands  of  our  own  broad  lake  ! 

Immense  bright  lake  !  I  trace  in  thee 
An  emblem  of  the  mighty  ocean, 
And  in  thy  restless  waves  I  see 
Nature's  eternal  law  of  motion; 
And  fancy  sees  the  Huron  Chief 


42  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Of  the  dim  past  kneel  to  implore  thee, — 
With  Indian  awe  he  seeks  relief 
In  pouring  homage  out  before  thee  ; 
And  I,  too,  feel  my  reverence  wake, 
As  gazing  on  our  own  broad  lake ! 
*  *  * 

Thomas  McQueen. 


Labrador. 

OFF  LABRADOR. 

rpHE  storm-wind  moans  through  branches  bare; 

J-    The  snow  flies  wildly  through  the  air; 

The  mad  waves  roar,  as  fierce  and  high 
They  toss  their  crests  against  the  sky. 

Dark  and  desolate  lies  the  sand 

Along  the  wastes  of  a  barren  land; 

And  rushing  on,  with  sheets  flung  free, 
A  ship  sails  down  from  the  northern  sea. 

With  lips  pressed  hard  the  helmsman  stands, 
Grasping  the  spokes  with  freezing  hands, 

While  white  the  reef  lies  in  his  path, 
Swept  by  an  ocean  full  of  wrath. 

The  surf-roar  in  the  blast  is  lost; 

The  foam-flakes  by  the  wild  wind  tost 

High  up  in  air,  no  warning  show, 
Hid  by  the  driving  mass  of  snow. 


LABRADOR.  43 

With  sudden  bound  and  sullen  grate, 

The  brave  ship  rushes  to  her  fate, 

And  splintered  deck  and  broken  mast 
Make  homage  to  the  roaring  blast. 

Amid  the  waves  float  riven  plank, 
And  rope  and  sail  with  moisture  dank; 

And  faces  gleaming  stern  and  white 
Shine  dimly  in  the  storm-filled  night. 

By  some  bright  river  far  away, 

Fond  hearts  are  wondering  where  they  stay 

Who  sleep  along  the  wave-washed  shore 

And  stormy  reefs  of  Labrador. 

Thomas  S.  Collier. 


THE  SPIRIT  GUIDE. 

FAR  in  the  realm  of  Arctic  night, 
Where  flames  the  weird  auroral  light, 
And  icebergs  loom  on  every  hand, 
Enchanters  of  that  lonely  land, 
The  patient,  dark -skinned  Esquimaux 
A  little  grave  shapes  in  the  snow. 

And  o'er  the  ice-plain,  bleak  and  wild, 
The  mourning  mother  bears  her  child, 
In  furry  garments  softly  rolled, 
Who  ne'er  again  shall  feel  the  cold, 
And  lays  him  on  the  icy  breast 
To  take  his  last  and  final  rest. 


44  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  there  beside  the  little  mound 
The  father  slays  his  fleetest  hound, 
A  creature  of  unerring  skill, 
Of  keenest  scent  and  docile  will, 
To  trace  far  haunts  of  seal  and  bear 
That  stock  the  little  ice-hut  there. 

He  lays  the  faithful  beast  and  brave 
Low  down  beside  his  baby's  grave, 
And  says:  "The  little  one  will  stray, 
Through  night  and  darkness  far  away; 
His  tender  feet  have  never  trod, 
And  cannot  find  the  path  to  God. 

"  Now  guide  him  safe  from  night  and  cold 
Far  out  to  realms  of  purest  gold, 
Where  flowery  meads  and  crystal  streams 
Are  smiling  in  the  sun's  glad  beams, 
Where  rise  abodes  of  joy  and  mirth 
And  feasting  fills  the  happy  earth." 

Consoled  the  parents  homeward  wend, 
And  leave  their  baby  to  the  friend 
Who  for  protection  and  defence 
Has  proved  a  gentle  Providence, 
Sure  that  the  dog  so  true  and  wise 
Will  find  the  gates  of  Paradise. 

O  love  that  would  outrun  the  tomb 

And  light  your  darlings  through  the  gloom! 

O  simple  faith  that  deems  love's  care 

Can  be  a  joy  and  solace  there ; 

Ye  cling  to  each  untutored  soul, 

And  bind  the  tropics  to  the  pole ! 

Augusta  Lamed. 


MONTM011ENCY,    THE    RIVER.  45 

Montmorency,  the  River,   Canada. 

THE  MONTMORENCY  WATERFALL  AND  CONE. 

WE  do  not  ask  for  the  leaves  and  flowers 
That  laugh  as  they  look  on  the  summer  hours; 
Let  the  violets  shrink  and  sigh, 
Let  the  red  rose  pine  and  die : 
The  sledge  is  yoked,  away  we  go, 
Amid  the  firs,  o'er  the  soundless  snow. 

Lo !   the  pine  is  singing  its  murmuring  song 
Over  our  heads  as  we  pass  along; 
And  every  bough  with  pearl  is  hung 
Whiter  than  those  that  from  ocean  sprung. 
The  sledge  is  yoked,  away  we  go, 
Amid  the  firs,  o'er  the  soundless  snow. 

The  ice  is  bright  with  a  thousand  dyes 
Like  the  changeful  light  in  a  beauty's  eyes. 
Now  it  neareth  her  blush,  and  now 
It  weareth  the  white  of  her  marble  brow. 
The  sledge  is  yoked,  and  away  we  go, 
Beneath  the  firs,  o'er  the  soundless  snow. 

We  are  wrapped  with  ermine  and  sable  round, 
By  the  Indian  in  trackless  forests  found; 
The  sunbeams  over  the  white  world  shine, 
And  we  carry  with  us  the  purple  wine. 
The  sledge  is  yoked,  and  away  we  go, 
Beneath  the  firs,  o'er  the  soundless  snow. 

Letttia  Elizabeth  Landon. 


46  POEMS    OP   PLACES. 


Montreal,   Canada. 

MOUNT  ROYAL. 

MOUNT  ROYAL  rises  proudly  up  the  blue, 
A  royal  mount  indeed,  with  verdure  crowned, 
Adorned  with  regal  dwellings  not  a  few, 
Sparkling  like  gems  set  in  the  mighty  mound. 
St.  Helen's,  too,  that  seems  enchanted  ground; 
A  stately  isle  in  gleaming  guise  bedight ; 
In  the  fond  river's  saintly  arms  enwound, 
Blushing,  and  graceful  as  some  witching  sprite; 
Fair  contrast  to  the  gloom  of  Hochelaga's  height. 


With  what  an  undissembled  pride  of  mien 
Jacques  Cartier  stood  upon  yon  mountain's  brow ! 
Beneath  him,  the  deep  wilderness  of  green, 
Where  the  vast  city  gleams  and  sparkles  now; 
Around  him  lordly  tree  and  gnarly  bough 
Rose  in  primeval  grandeur ;    leagues  away, 
The  rolling  hills  untouched  by  axe  or  plough; 
The  glowing  river;   lakes  and  islands  gay: 
Another  Mirza's  dream  of  some  remoter  day. 

The  Huron  then  was  master  of  the  soil; 

The  broad  champaign  was  his,  both  near  and  far; 

But  scanty  need  had  he  to  slave  and  toil, 

The  chase  sufficed  him  as  a  rest  from  war. 


MONTREAL.  4? 

He  little  knew  that  his  eventful  star 
Of  empire  nickered  like  a  dying  flame, 
Too  soon,  alas  !    to  set  amid  the  jar 
Of  rival  nations,  —  one  at  least  in  aim : 
But  Cartier's  dream  was  France,  her  glory  and  her 
fame. 

The  smoke  that  o'er  the  misty  tree-tops  curled 
Showed  where  the  Hochelagan  wigwams,  rude, 
And  few  in  number,  made  the  Hurons'  world, 
Surrounded  by  the  awful  solitude. 
Rapt  in  deep  thought,  with  folded  arms  he  stood, 
The  daring  navigator!     Did  he  see 
Aught  of  the  future  mirrored  in  his  mood? 
The  tricolor,  his  cherished  fleur-de-lys, 
Replaced  by  Britain's  flag  ?     No  !  this  could  never  be  ! 

His  only  dream  was  France.     The  new  world  seemed 
Created  for  her  glory.     Long  years  thence, 
Could  he  have  known  how  humanly  he  dreamed, 
How  little  of  the  seer's  prophetic  sense 
Was  his,  how  much  of  human  impotence! 
O  Britain  !  should  thine  island  reign  be  o'er, 
Shouldst  thou  be  hurled  from  thy  proud  eminence, 
Be  this  in  mercy  the  predestined  shore 
To  keep  thy  name  and  fame  alive  forevermore. 

diaries  Sangster. 


48  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Newfoundland,  the  Island. 

PRLMA  VISTA. 

11  T  AND  !  land ! "  how  welcome  is  the  word 

JU     To  all,  —  or  landsmen  bred  or  seamen  ! 
Deep  in  their  lairs  the  sick  are  stirred, — 

The  decks  are  thronged  with  smiling  women. 
The  face  that  had  gone  down  in  tears 

Ten  days  since  in  the  Biitish  Channel, 
Now,  like  Aurora,  reappears,  — 

Aurora  wrapped  in  furs  and  flannel. 

"  Where  ?  "     "  Yonder,  on  the  right,  dost  see 

A  firm  dark  line,  and  close  thereunder 
A  white  line  drawn  along  the  sea, 

A  flashing  line  whose  voice  is  thunder?" 
"It  seems  to  be  a  fearsome  coast, — 

No  trees,  no  hospitable  whiffs,  — 
God  help  the  crew  whose  ship  is  lost 

On  yonder  homicidal  cliffs  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "   say  I  to  that  sweet  prayer : 

"  The  land,  indeed,  looks  sad  and  stern, 
No  female  savans'  field-day  there, 

Collecting  butterflies  and  fern. 
Au  iron  land  it  seems  from  far, 

On  which  no  shepherd's  flock  reposes ; 
Lashed  by  the  elemental  war, 

The  land  is  not  a  land  of  roses." 


NEWFOUNDLAND,    THE    ISLAND.  49 

Proudly,  0  Prima  Vista !  still, 

Where  sweeps  the  sea-hawk's  fearless  pinion, 
Do  thou  unfurl  from  every  hill 

The  banner  of  the  New  Dominion ! 
Proudly  to  all  who  sail  the  sea, 

Bear  then,  advanced,  the  Union  standard, 
And  friendly  may  its  welcome  be 

To  all  men,  seaward  bound  or  landward! 

All  hail  !  old  Prima  Yista  !   long 

As  break  the  billows  on  thy  boulders, 
Will  seamen  hail  thy  lights  with  song, 

And  home-hopes  quicken  all  beholders. 
Long  as  thy  headlands  point  the  way 

Between  man's  old  and  new  creation, 
Evil  fall  from  thee  like  the  spray, 

And  hope  illumine  every  station ! 

Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  count  o'er 

The  spoils  of  ocean,  won  by  labor; 
Long  may  the  free,  unbolted  door 

Be  open  to  each  trusty  neighbor! 
Long,  long  may  blossom  on  thy  rocks 

Thy  sea-pinks,  fragrant  as  the  heather; 
Thy  maidens  of  the  flowing  locks 

Safe  sheltered  from  life's  stormy  weather ! 

Yes  !   this  is  Prima  Yista !  this 

The  very  landmark  we  have  prayed  for; 

Darkly  they  wander  who  have  -missed 

The  guidance  yon  stern  land  was  made  for. 


50  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Call  it  not  homicidal,  then, 

The  New  World's  outwork;  grim  its  beauty, 
This  guardian  of  the  lives  of  men, 

Clad  in  the  garb  that  does  its  duty  ! 

Less  gayly  trills  the  lover  lark 

Above  the  singing  swain  at  morning, 
Than  rings  through  sea-mists  chill  and'  dark 

This  name  of  welcome  and  of  warning. 
Not  happier  to  his  cell  may  go 

The  saint,  triumphant  o'er  temptation, 
Than  the  worn  captain  turns  below, 

Relieved  as  by  a  revelation. 

How  blest,  when  Cabot  ventured  o'er 

This  northern  sea,  yon  rocks  rose  gleaming! 
A  promised  land  seemed  Labrador 

(Nor  was  the  promise  all  in  seeming) ; 
Strong  sea-wall,  still  it  stands  to  guard 

An  island  fertile,  fair  as  any, 
The  rich,  but  the  unreaped  reward 

Of  Cabot  and  of  Verrazzani  ! 

Thomas  D'Arcy  Me  Gee, 


Ottawa,   Canada. 

IMPERIUM  IN  IMPERIO. 

IN  Ottawa,  the  Lord  of  Lome, 
Young  Campbell,  clansman  of  Argyll, 
A  court  shall  hold  to  put  to  scorn 


OTTAWA.  5 1 

All  courts  but  that  of  Britain's  isle ; 
Strange  chiefs,  through  many  an  hundred  mile 

Of  trackless  woods,  will  seek  Louise, 
To  change  their  welcome  for  her  smile, 

Who  comes  their  Princess  over  seas. 

Of  Saxon  aspect,  proud  of  mien, 
Bearing  high  names  in  days  of  yore, 

Some  gay  with  tartan  red  and  green, 
Stern  as  their  Caledonian  shore, 
With  voices  like  Corbrechtan's  roar,  — 

What  men  are  these  in  furred  array  ? 
These  be  the  lords  of  Labrador, 

And  these  the  dukes  of  Hudson's  Bay. 

The  dwellers  where  the  waters  fall 
Down  Montmoreiicy's  woody  steep, 

The  merchant-kings  of  Montreal, 
And  they  who  Durham  uplands  reap, 
Shall  join,  that  rule  to  guard  and  keep, 

WThose  large  dominion  shall  outgrow 
The  imperial  island  in  the  deep,  — 

Though  Time  her  empire  should  o'erthrow. 

Haply,  on  some  resplendent  morn, 
When  London  streets  are  wild  with  life, 

Great  captains  in  gay  chariots  borne, 
Men  who  have  faced  the  foe  in  strife, 
And  many  a  high  peer's  haughty  wife, 

And  Norman  ladies  fair  to  see, 
Towards  Holbein's  towers,  with  liveries  rife, 

Pour  through  Pall  Mall,  by  Twenty -three, 


52  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"With  goodlier  pomp  to  swell  the  blood 
In  British  bosoms  pleased  with  show, 

Aiid  give  to  thy  historic  flood, 
Dark  Thames,  a  more  majestic  flow; 
Yet  there  no  manlier  hearts  can  glow, 

In  truer  subjects,  better  born, 
Than  those  that  welcome  to  Eideau 

Louisa  and  the  Lord  of  Lome ! 

Thomas  William  Parsons. 


Ottawa,  the  River,   Canada. 

THE  FALLS  OF  THE  CHAUDIERE,  OTTAWA, 

I  HAVE  laid  my  cheek  to  Nature's,  placed  my  puny- 
hand  in  hers, 
Felt  a  kindred  spirit  warming  all  the  life-blood  of  my 

face, 

Moved  amid  the  very  foremost  of  her  truest  worshippers, 
Studying  each  curve  of  beauty,  marking  every  minute 

grace  ; 
Loved  not  less  the  mountain  cedar  than  the  flowers  at 

its  feet, 
Looking  skyward  from  the  valley,  open-lipped  as  if 

in  prayer, 

Felt  a  pleasure  in  the  brooklet  singing  of  its  wild  re 
treat, 

But  I  knelt  before  the   splendor  of  the  thunderous 
Chaudiere. 


OTTAWA,    THE    RIVER.  53 

All  my  manhood  waked  within  me,  every  nerve   had 

tenfold  force, 
And  my  soul   stood    up  rejoicing,    looking   on   with 

cheerful  eyes, 

Watching  the  resistless  waters  speeding  on  their  down 
ward  course, 
Titan   strength  and   queenly  beauty   diademed  with 

rainbow  dyes. 
Eye  and  ear,  with  spirit  quickened,  mingled  with  the 

lovely  strife, 
Saw  the  living  Genius  shrined  within  her  sanctuary 

fair, 
Heard  her  voice  of  sweetness  singing,  peered  into  her 

hidden  life, 

And  discerned    the  tuneful    secret    of   the  jubilant 
Chaudiere. 

*  *  * 

Still  I  heard  the  mellow  sweetness  of  her  voice  at  in 
tervals, 
Mingling  with  the  fall  of  waters,   rising  with  the 

snowy  spray, 
Ringing  through  the   sportive  current  like  the  joy  of 

waterfalls, 
Sending  up  their  hearty  vespers  at  the   calmy  close 

of  day. 
Loath  to  leave  the  scene  of  beauty,  lover-like  I  stayed, 

and  stayed, 

Folding  to  my  eager  bosom  memories  beyond  compare ; 
Deeper,  stronger,   more   enduring   than   my  dreams    of 

wood  and  glade, 

Were  the  eloquent  appeals  of  the  magnificent  Chau 
diere. 


54  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

E'en  the  solid  bridge  is  trembling,  whence  I  look  my 

last  farewell, 
Dizzy  with  the  roar  and  trampling  of  the  mighty  herd 

of  waves, 

Speeding  past  the  rocky  Island,  steadfast  as  a  sentinel, 
Towards    the    loveliest   bay  that    ever   mirrored  the 

Algonquin  Braves. 
Soul  of  Beauty  !  Genius  !  Spirit !  Priestess  of  the  lovely 

strife  ! 
In  my  heart  thy  words  are  shrined,  as  in  a  sanctuary 

fair ; 
Echoes  of  thy  voice  of  sweetness,  rousing  all  my  better 

life, 
Ever  haunt  my  wildest  visions  of  the  jubilant  Chau- 

diere. 

Charles  Sangster. 


Prince,  Edward,  the  Island. 

.  AN  INDIAN  SUMMER'S  DAY. 

FAIR  Ilillsboro's  flood  pursues  its  silent  way 
By  gloomy  woods,  rich  fields,  and  meadows  gay 
Slow  o'er  its  breast  the  stately  vessels  glide, 
Their  drooping  sails  reflected  in  the  tide; 
A  roseate  blush  the  spreading  haze  pervades, 
And  jets  of  amber  light  the  sylvan  shades  ; 
The  withering  leaves  of  faded  green  and  gold 
Drop  from  the  spreading  beeches  gray  and  old; 
The  maple's  scarlet  livery  blends  with  these, 


"  By  gloomy  woods."     See  page  54 


QUEBEC.  55 

And  silvery  birches  thread  the  dark  fir-trees; 
While  swelling  hills,  red  cliffs,  and  sheltered  farms 
Lend  to  the  glowing  landscape  added  charms. 

Anonymous. 


Quebec,   Canada. 

MEMORIES  OF  QUEBEC. 


A 


FAR,  Quebec  exalts  her  crest  on  high, 
Her  rocks  and  battlements  invade  the  sky ; 


While  on  the  Bay's  broad  bosom  far  and  wide, 
The  anchored  fleets  of  commerce  proudly  ride. 
Huge  cliffs  above  precipitous  that  frown, 
Like  Atlas,  bent  beneath  another  town, 
Where  all  along  the  gray  embrasured  steep 
In  grim  repose  the  watchful  camion  peep, 
Tall  spires,  and  domes,  and  turrets  shine  afar 
Behind  the  arched  gates,  and  mounds  of  war, 
While  proud  Cape  Diamond  towers  above  them  all, 
With  aerial  glacis  and  embattled  wall ; 
Till  on  the  loftiest  point  where  swift  birds  rise, 
Old  England's  standard  floats  amid  the  skies. 

Oh !    glorious  spot !    the  Briton's  boast  and  pride, 
Where  armies  battled  and  where  heroes  died, 
Where  gallant  Wolfe  led  his  devoted  band, 
Rejoiced  in  death  and  waved  his  dying  hand; 
Mid  cheers  of  victory  rung  from  side  to  side, 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  hero  smiled  content,  and  calmly  died  ! 
Though  few  his  years  and  young  his  lofty  fame, 
With  greenest  garlands  England  crowns  his  name; 
And  on  her  roll  of  glory  proudly  reads 
The  nation's  records  of  his  mighty  deeds. 
And  noble  Montcalm !     Well  thy  honored  bier 
May  claim  the  tribute  of  a  British  tear. 
Although  the  lilies  from  these  ramparts  fell, 
Thy  name  immortal  with  great  Wolfe's  shall  dwell : 
Like  him,  thy  consciousness  of  duty  done 
Soothed  thy  last  pang,  and  cheered  thy  setting  sun  ! 

W.  Kirby. 

QUEBEC. 

TN  the  rich  pomp  of  dying  day 

J-     Quebec,  the  rock-throned  monarch,  glowed, — 

Castle  and  spire  and  dwelling  gray 

The  batteries  rude  that  niched  their  way 

Along  the  cliff,  beneath  the  play 

Of  the  deep  yellow  light,  were  gay, 

And  the  curved  flood,  below  that  lay, 

In  flashing  glory  flowed; 
Beyond,  the  sweet  and  mellow  smile 
Beamed  upon  Orleans'  lovely  isle; 

Until  the  downward  view 
Was  closed  by  mountain-tops  that,  reared 
Against  the  burnished  sky,  appeared 

In  misty,  dreamy  hue. 

West  of  Quebec's  embankments  rose 
The  forests  in  their  wild  repose. 


QUEBEC.  5  7 

Between  the  trunks,  the  radiance  slim 

Here  came  with  slant  and  quivering  blaze; 
Whilst  there,  in  leaf-wreathed  arbors  dim, 

Was  gathering  gray  the  twilight's  haze. 
Where  cut  the  boughs  the  background  glow 

That  striped  the  west,  a  glittering  belt, 
The  leaves  transparent  seemed,  as  though 

In  the  rich  radiance  they  would  melt. 

Upon  a  narrow,  grassy  glade, 

Where  thickets  stood  in  grouping  shade, 

The  light  streaked  down  in  golden  mist, 

Kindled  the  shrubs,  the  greensward  kissed, 

Until  the  clover-blossoms  white 

Flashed  out  like  spangles  large  and  bright. 

Alfred  Billings  Street. 


TO  THE  UESULINES. 

OPUKE  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 
Securely  rest! 

Blue  be  the  sky  above,  —  your  quiet  bark 
By  soft  winds  blest ! 

Still  toil  in  duty  and  commune  with  heaven, 

World-weaned  and  free ; 
God  to  his  humblest  creatures  room  has  given, 

And  space  to  be. 

Space  for  the  eagle  in  the  vaulted  sky 
To  plume  his  wing,  — 


58  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Space  for  the  ring-dove  by  her  young  to  lie, 
And  softly  sing. 

Space  for  the  sunflower,  bright  with  yellow  glow, 

To  court  the  sky,  — 
Space  for  the  violet,  where  the  wild  woods  grow, 

To  live  and  die. 

Space  for  the  ocean  in  its  giant  might 

To  swell  and  rave,  — 
Space  for  the  river,  tinged  with  rosy  light, 

Where  green  banks  wave. 

Space  for  the  sun,  to  tread  his  path  in  might, 

And  golden  pride,  — 
Space  for  the  glowworm,  calling  by  her  light 

Love  to  her  side. 

Then,  pure  and  gentle  ones,  within  your  ark 

Securely  rest ! 
Blue  be  the  skies  above,  and  your  still  bark 

By  kind  winds  blest. 

Caroline  Oilman. 


ON  THE  TAKING  OF  QUEBEC. 

AMIDST  the  clamor  of  exulting  joys, 
Which  triumph  forces  from  the  patriot  heart, 
Grief  dares  to  mingle  her  soul-piercing  voice, 
And  quells  the  raptures  which  from  pleasure  start. 

0  Wolfe  !    to  thee  a  streaming  flood  of  woe, 
Sighing  we  pay,  and  think  e'en  conquest  dear; 


QUEBEC.  59 

Quebec  in  Vain  shall  teacli  our  breast  to  glow, 
Whilst  thy  sad  fate  extorts  the  heart-wrung  tear. 

Alive,  the  foe  thy  dreadful  vigor  fled, 

And  saw  thee  fall  with  joy-pronouncing  eyes  ; 

Yet  they  shall  know  thou  conquerest,  though  dead ! 
Since  from  thy  tomb  a  thousand  heroes  rise. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


WOLFE  AND  MONTCALM. 

QUEBEC,  —  how  regally  it  crowns  the  height  ! 
The  Titan  Strength  has  here  set  up  his  throne; 
Unmindful  of  the  sanguinary  fight, 
The  roar  of  cannon  mingling  with  the  moan 
Of  mutilated  soldiers  years  agone, 
That  gave  the  place  a  glory  and  a  name 
Among  the  nations.     France  was  heard  to  groan, 
England  rejoiced,  but  checked  the  proud  acclaim, — 
A  brave  young  chief  had  fallen  to  vindicate  her  fame. 

Fallen  in  the  prime  of  his  ambitious  years, 
As  falls  the  young  oak  when  the  mountain  blast 
Rings  like  a  clarion,  and  the  tempest  jeers 
To  see  its  pride  to  earth  untimely  cast. 
So  fell  brave  Wolfe,  heroic  to  the  last, 
Amid  the  tempest  and  grim  scorn  of  war, 
While  leering  Fate  with  look  triumphant  passed, 
Pleased  with  the  slaughter  and  the  horrid  jar 
That  lured  him  hence  to  see  how  paled  a  hero's  star, 


60  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Only  to  rise  amid  the  heavens  of  Fame 
With  more  impassioned  radiance;   as  the  sun 
That  sets  at  evening  like  a  world  on  flame 
Returns  with  calmer  glory.     He  had  run 
The  race  that  Fortune  bade  him,  and  had  won 
The  prize  which  thousands  perish  for  in  vain. 
For  he  had  triumphed ;    they  depart  undone, 
Like  a  dark  day  that  sinks  in  cloud  and  rain, 
But  never  can  return  or  see  the  morn  again. 


Heroic  Wolfe  !   the  martial  path  he  chose 
Nipped  his  long-cherished  dreams  just  as  the  bud 
Of  his  fair  promise,  opening  to  a  rose, 
Was  drenched  in  tears   and  stained  with  life's  dear 

blood. 

A  hero-martyr;   for  his  country's  good 
Yielding  up  life  and  all  he  held  most  dear; 
A  mind  with  finest  sympathies  imbued, 
A  wise  companion  and  a  friend  sincere, 
A  soul  to  burn  with  love,  a  nature  to  revere. 

Wolfe  and  Montcalm  !  two  nobler  names  ne'er  graced 
The  page  historic  or  the  hostile  plain; 
No  braver  souls  the  storm  of  battle  faced, 
None  more  heroic  will  e'er  breathe  again. 
They  passed  unto  their  rest  without  a  stain 
Upon  their  kindred  natures  or  true  hearts. 
One  graceful  column  to  the  noble  twain 
Speaks  of  a  nation's  gratitude,  and  starts 
The  tear  that  Valor  claims  and  Feeling's  self  impairs. 


QUEBEC.  S 

Peace  to  their  dust !   all  honor  to  the  brave  ! 
They  lived  like  brothers,  and  like  men  they  died; 
One  worthy  of  the  trust  he  could  not  save, 
The  other  flushed  not  with  poor  mortal  pride, 
But  giving  God  the  praise,  when  on  his  side 
The  bird  of  Yictory  perched.     Worthy  were  they 
That  two  great  nations  on  their  zeal  relied, 
And  wept  their  loss,  wept  the  distressful  day 
That  saw  two  lives  like  theirs  untimely  swept  away. 

Far  o'er  the  cloud-built  chateaux  of  the  Morn 
Had  climbed  the  sun  upon  that  autumn  day 
That  led  me  to  those  battlements.     The  corn 
Upon  the  distant  fields  was  ripe.     Away 
To  the  far  left  the  swelling  highlands  lay; 
The  quiet  cove;   the  river  bright  and  still; 
The  gallant  ships  that  made  the  harbor  gay; 
And  like  a  Thought  swayed  by  a  potent  Will, 
Point  Levi,  seated  at  the  foot  of  the  old  hill : 

What  were  the  gardens  and  the  terraces, 
The  stately  dwellings,  and  the  monuments 
Upreared  to  human  fame,  compared  with  these  ? 
Those  ancient  hills  stood  proudly  ere  the  tents 
Of  the  first  voyageurs  —  swart  visitants 
From  the  fair,  sunny  Loire  —  were  pitched  upon 
Wild  Stadacona's  height.     The  armaments 
Whose  flaming  missiles  smote  the  solid  stone 
Aroused  yon  granite  Cape  that  answered  groan  for  groan 

Charles  Sangster 


62  POEMS   OF    PLACES. 

Quinte,  the  Bay,   Canada. 

THE  BAY  OF  QUINTE. 

SPIRIT  of  Gentleness  !   what  grace 
Attends  thy  footsteps  !     Here  thy  face 
With  fine  creative  glory  shone, 
Like  a  mild  seraph's  near  the  throne, 
On  that  fair  morn  when  first  thy  wing 
Passed  o'er  the  waters,  brightening 
The  solemn  shores  that  gravely  lay 
Far,  far  along  the  tranquil  bay. 

No  lofty  grandeur  piled  supreme, 
But  like  a  sweet,  prophetic  dream, 
The  landscape  stretched,  unfolding  still, 
In  gently  sloping  vale  and  hill ; 
Bright  woods  of  every  shade  of  green; 
And  over  all,  the  sun,  serene, 
Rolled  back  the  shadowy  mists  of  gray 
That  veiled  the  bosom  of  the  bay. 

What  spirit  of  sublime  repose 
Was  with  thee  when  the  forest  rose 
And  flung  its  leafy  mantle  o'er 
The  changeful  wild  on  either  shore? 
Spirits  of  Rest  and  Peace  !   for  here 
They  build  their  bowers  year  by  year, 
Creating  yet,  from  day  to  day, 
Fresh  graces  for  their  favorite  bay. 


Of  the  hoarse  billow  from  the  deeps."     See  page  63. 


QUINTE,    THE    BAY.  63 

And  still  the  charming  landscape  lies 
The  fairest  'neath  Canadian  skies, 
Trembling  with  grace  and  beauty  rare, 
Blushing  to  know  how  sweet  and  fair 
The  lovely  features  all  remain, 
Untouched,  untainted,  free  from  stain; 
The  matchless  face  as  warm  and  gay 
As  when  first  mirroied  in  the  bay. 

Broad,  wavy  grain-fields  touch  the  shore, 

Receding  from  the  dash  and  roar 

Of  the  hoarse  billow  from  the  deeps 

Of  the  wide  lake ;   rare  woodland  sweeps 

Of  upland  wild  and  deep  ravine, 

In  undulating  swells  of  green; 

And  grassy  banks  that  shoreward  stray, 

To  toy  with  the  delightful  bay. 

Fair  meadows  basking  in  the  sun, 
Dotted  with  stately  herds  that  shun 
The  summer  heats  beneath  the  shade 
Of  some  old  remnant  of  the  glade ; 
Or  having  sought  the  cooling  stream, 
Defy  the  sun's  intensest  beam, 
Fanned  by  the  graceful  airs  that  play 
O'er  the  calm  surface  of  the  bay. 
*  *  * 

Charles  Sangster. 


64  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Red  River,   Canada. 

THE  RED  RIVER  YOYAGEUR. 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain 
Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-land 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 

With  the  drifting  cloud-rack  joins, — 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins ! 

Drearily  blows  the  north-wind 
Erom  the  land  of  ice  and  snow; 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 

And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north-wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 

The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace ; 


RIDEAU,    THE    LAKE.  65 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 
That  call  from  their  turrets  twain, 

To  the  boatman  on  the  river, 
To  the  hunter  on  the  plain! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 

The  bitter  north-winds  blow, 
And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 

Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watching 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 

The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 

The  chimes  of  eternal  peace ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


Rideau,  the  Lake,  Canada, 

RIDEAU  LAKE. 

A  WARM  light  permeates  the  sky, 
A  silvery  mist  is  lingering  nigh, 
And  floating  up  the  trees  near  by. 


66  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  slumberous  silence  fills  the  air, 
Silence  upon  the  lake,  and  where 
The  pines  drop  pearls  from  out  their  hair. 

•>  *  * 

Up  leaps  the  sun's  broad  chest  of  fire, 
Up  swell  the  bird-hymns,  —  higher,  —  higher 
Phoebus  has  loosed  his  forest  choir. 

A  massive  mirror  seems  the  lake, 
A  mirror  that  no  force  can  break, 
But  which  the  tricksy  zephyrs  shake. 

Shy  teal  of  many  a  gorgeous  hue, 
The  golden-green,  the  gray,  the  blue, 
Rise  like  bright  fancies  on  the  view. 

The  trees  are  green  on  either  side, 
Whole  forests  standing  in  their  pride, 
Rounding  their  shadows  in  the  tide. 

Islets  are  floating  here  and  there, 
Dreamy  and  languid,  passing  fair, 
Tinted  and  limned  with  artist-care, 

Reposing  like  the  thoughts  that  lie 

Within  the  meditative  eye 

Of  youth,  —  bright  thoughts  that  never  die. 

Narcissus-like  they  muse,  and  seem 
To  watch  their  features  in  the  stream, 
Half  indistinct,  as  in  a  dream. 

Like  forms  ideal,  lo,  they  stand, 
Huge  mounds  of  airy-seeming  land, 
Fashioned  by  the  Great  Artist-hand, 


67 

Smiling  like  children  fresli  from  sleep, 
Bathing  their  soft  limbs  in  the  deep, 
As  from  their  early  couch  they  leap. 

Young  cedars  breathing  airs  of  love, 
Pines,  pointing  to  the  far-above, 
Flowers  at  their  feet,  white  as  the  dove. 

Rocks  red-flushed  in  the  ruddy  morn,  — 
Young  Athletes,  browed  with  manly  scorn, 
White  birches  from  their  bosoms  bora. 

Visions  of  beauty  !     Isles  of  light ! 
Your  sunny  verdure  glads  the  sight, 
Each  living  fir-tree  seems  a  sprite. 

Stirred  by  the  breeze,  the  green  leaves  wake, 

The  plover  whistles  in  the  brake, 

Wide  day  sits  crowned  o'er  Rideau  Lake. 

Charles  Sangster. 


St.  Anris,   Canada. 

THOMAS  MOORE  AT  ST.  ANN'S. 

ON  these  swift  waters  borne  along, 
A  .poet  from  the  farther  shore 
Framed  as  he  went  his  solemn  song, 
And  set  it  by  the  boatman's  oar. 

It  was  his  being's  law  to  sing 

From  morning  dawn  to  evening  light; 


68  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Like  nature's  chorister's,  his  wing 
And  voice  were  only  stilled  at  night. 

Nor  did  all  nights  bring  him  repose; 

Tor  by  the  moon's  auspicious  ray, 
Like  Philomela  on  her  rose, 

His  song  eclipsed  the  songs  of  day. 

He  came  a  stranger  summer-bird, 
And  quickly  passed;  but  as  he  flew 

Our  river's  glorious  song  he  heard, 

His  tongue  was  loosed,  —  he  warbled  too ! 

And,  mark  the  moral,  ye  who  dream 

To  be  the  poets  of  the  land: 
He  nowhere  found  a  nobler  theme 

Than  you,  ye  favored,  have  at  hand. 

Not  in  the  storied  Summer  Isles, 

Not  mid  the  classic  Cyclades, 
Not  where  the  Persian  sun-god  smiles, 

Found  he  more  fitting  theme  than  these. 

So,  while  the  boat  glides  swift  along, 
Behold  above  there  looketh  forth 

The  star  that  lights  the  path  of  song,  — 
The  constant  star  that  loves  the  north ! 

Thomas  L'Arcy  McGee. 


ST.    FRANCIS,    THE    LAKE.  69 


St.  Francis,  the  Lake,  Canada. 

LAKE  ST.  FKANCIS. 

VTATTJRE  is  ever  varied.     Calm  and  still 
1 1   The  lake  receives  us  on  its  tranquil  breast 
With  sweetest  smiles  of  welcome.     As  a  rill 
Enters  a  valley  with  a  lightsome  zest, 
After  it  leaves  some  mountain  tarn,  oppressed 
With  its  wild  journey  ere  it  finds  the  plain, 
So  hail  we  Lake  St.  Erancis.     Love  might  rest 
Among  these  isles  where  many  a  savage  train 
Trampled  the  flowers  of  peace,  and  strewed  them   on 
the  main. 

Embowered  homesteads  greet  us  as  we  pass 

These  nooks  of  quiet  beauty.     Here  and  there 

An  isle  of  shade  upon  a  sea  of  glass 

Eloats  lightly  as  a  breath  of  summer  air; 

Verdurous  points  and  openings  so  fair 

'T  were  vain  to  search  the  misty  Dreamland  o'er 

Eor  such  a  vision  as  could  well  compare 

With    the   broad   landscape   strewn   from    shore    to 

shore, 
That  like  a  dear  face  grows  in  beauty  more  and  more. 

No  aged  forests  lift  their  tangled  arms, 
No  threatening  rapid  rolls  its  vengeful  way, 
The  ever-shifting  panorama  charms 
And  soothes  the  soul  like  an  entrancing  lay. 


70  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Along  the  shores  the  restless  poplars  stray, 
Like  woodland  outposts  watching  through  the  night ; 
Yon  grove  of  pine  englooms  each  starry  ray 
And  sleeps  in  darkest  shadow  ;  and  the  white 
And  spectral  tombstones  mark  the  graveyard's  hallowed 
site. 

Faint,  far-off  islands,  dim  and  shadowy,  seem 
To  loom  like  purple  clouds,  and  a  stray  sail, 
Like  a  white  condor,  flits  across  our  beam, 
Inviting  truant  breeze  and  loitering  gale 
From  odorous  wood  and  flower-besprinkled  vale; 
The  murmurs  of  the  isles  past  which  we  glide 
Are  soothing  as  an  Oriental  tale 
Flung  by  some  tuneful  Ha  fix  far  and  wide, 
As    through    the    dreamy    maze   we    dash  with   native 
pride. 

An  Indian,  like  a  memory,  glides  by; 

One  frail  canoe  where  once  the  tribes  in  all 

Their  savage  greatness  sent  their  startling  cry 

Along  their  countless  fleets.     Thus  at  the  call 

Of  Destiny  whole  races  rise  and  fall; 

Whole    states   and    empires   like   those    tribes  have 

passed 

To  swell  the  grim  historic  carnival. 
We,  too,  the  puppets  of  to-day,  that  vast 
And  solemn  masquerade  must  gravely  join  at  last. 

A  dreamy  quiet  haunts  the  wide  expanse 
O'er  all  the  flashing  lake,  —  a  world  of  calm, 
Fair  as  the  fairest  picture  of  romance. 


ST.    FRANCIS,    THE    LAKE.  71 

Night's  awful  splendor  thrills  us  like  a  psalm. 
High  and  erect,  and  heavenward  as  a  palm, 
Our  thoughts  and  hopes  ascend.     Is  it  not  well 
That  we  should  feel  at  times  the  heavenly  balm 
Of  contemplation  soothe  us  like  a  spell  ? 
As    these    too-witching   scenes    our    grosser    yearnings 
quell. 

The  welcome  lighthouse  like  an  angel  stands 
Arrayed  as  with  a  glory,  pointing  to 
Vast  heights  of  promise,  where  the  summer  lands 
Rise  like  great  hopes  upon  man's  spirit-view. 
It  warns  life's  toiling  pilgrim  to  eschew 
The  rocks  and  shoals  on  which  too  many  wrecks 
Of  noble  hearts,  all  searching  for  the  true, 
Have  sunk  in  utter  ruin.     Man  may  vex 
His  thoughts  to  find  out  God;  his  searchings  but  per 
plex 

His  poor  contracted  reason,  —  poor  at  best, 
One  grain  of  faith  is  worth  a  sheaf  of  search. 
On,  love  !  to-night  we  cannot  think  of  rest, 
Past  the  dim  islands  where  the  silvery  birch 
Gleams  like  a  shepherd's  crook.    Yonder,  the  church 
Lights  us  to  Lancaster.     And  now  the  wide, 
Wide  lake,  we  wander  over,  soon  to  lurch 
And  roll  and  toss,  as  down  the  stream  we  glide, 
Light  as  a  feather  on  the  stormy  ocean-tide. 

Charles  Sangster, 


72  POEMS  or  PLACES. 

St.  John,  N.  B. 

ST,  JOHN. 

1617. 

"fTO  the  winds  give  our  banner! 

J-     Bear  homeward  again  !  " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne ; 
Prom  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
Prom  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Peuobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her,  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell, 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred. 


ST.    JOHN.  73 

Had  welcomed  and  feasted 
The  heretic  Lord. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemequid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coining 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way,   , 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
Oh,  well  sped  La  Tour ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 
"Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love  ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 

My  fortress  above  ?  " 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 
St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 


74  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

On  fire-Wasted  dwellings 
And  silent  redoubt ; 

From  the  low,  shattered  walls 
Which  the  flame  had  o'emm, 

There  floated  no  banner, 
There  thundered  no  gun! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin  ! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within  ?  " 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke: 

"No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estieune, 
Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 

But  thy  red-handed  rival, 
With  fire,  steel,  and  ball ! 

On  an  errand  of  mercy 
I  hitherward  came, 


ST.    JOHN.  75 

While  the  wails  of  thy  castle 
Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

Pentagoct's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ?  " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne : 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen; 

"Half  veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 

In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  ! 
But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe  ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe ! 

"In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment,  —  and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men  ! 

"Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 
Thy  lady  alone 


76  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 
Float  over  St.  John." 

"Let  the  dastard  look  to  it!" 
Cried  fiery  Estienne, 

"Were  D'Aulney  King  Louis, 
I  'd  free  her  again  !  " 

"Alas  for  thy  lady! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free : 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door ! " 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  staggered  back ; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"We  cruise  now  for  vengeance! 

Give  way!"  cried  Estienne. 

"Massachusetts  shall  hear 
Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 

And  from  island  and  creekside 
Her  fishers  shall  throng ! 

Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 


ST.    LAWRENCE    (CADARAQUl),    THE    EIVER.       77 

When  liis  palisades  echo 
The  Puritan's  gun!" 

Oh,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 

Hung  tenderly  o'er  him  ; 
There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 

And  green  isles  before  him: 
But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


St. Lawrence  (Cadaraqui),  the  River. 

CADARAQUI, 

I  DREAMED  not  then  that,  ere  the  rolling  year 
Had  filled  its  circle,  I  should  wander  here 
In  musing  awe ;   should  tread  this  wondrous  world, 
See  all  its  store  of  inland  waters  hurled 
In  one  vast  volume  down  Niagara's  steep, 
Or  calm  behold  them,  in  transparent  sleep, 
Where  the  blue  hills  of  old  Toronto  shed 
Their  evening  shadows  o'er  Ontario's 'bed; 
Should  trace  the  grand  Cadaraqui,  and  glide 
Down  the  white  rapids  of  his  lordly  tide 
Through  massy  woods,  rnid  islets  flowering  fair, 
And  blooming  glades,  where  the  first  sinful  pair 


78  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

For  consolation  might  have  weeping  trod, 
When  banished  from  the  garden  of  their  God. 
0  Lady  !  these  are  miracles,  which  man, 
Caged  in  the  bounds  of  Europe's  pygmy  span, 
Can  scarcely  dream  of,  —  which  his  eye  must  see 
To  know  how  wonderful  this  world  can  be  ! 

But  lo !  the  last  tints  of  the  west  decline, 
And  night  falls  dewy  o'er  these  banks  of  pine. 
Among  the  reeds,  in  which  our  idle  boat 
Is  rocked  to  rest,  the  wind's  complaining  note 
Dies  like  a  half-breathed  whispering  of  flutes ; 
Along  the  wave  the  gleaming  porpoise  shoots, 
And  I  can  trace  him,  like  a  watery  star, 
Down  the  steep  current,  till  he  fades  afar 
Amid  the  foaming  breakers'  silvery  light, 
Where  yon  rough  rapids  sparkle  through  the  night. 

Thomas  Moore. 


A  CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG. 

WRITTEN  ON   THE    RIVER    ST.  LAWRENCE. 

"HAINTLY  as  tolls  the  evening  chime 

J-    Our  voices  keep  tune  and  our  oars  keep  time. 

Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 

We'll  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 

Row,  brothers,  row,  the  stream  runs  fast, 

The  Rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight  is  past. 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl. 


ST.    LAWRENCE    (CADARAQUl),    THE   RIVER.       79 

But,  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore, 
Oh !    sweetly  we  '11  rest  our  weary  oar. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  Rapids  are  near  and  the  daylight  is  past. 

Utawas'  tide !   this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle  !  hear  our  prayers, 
Oh,  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs. 
Blow,  breezes,  blow,  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  Ilapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight  is  past, 

Thomas  Moore. 


ST,  LAWRENCE  RIVER. 

DOWN,  down  we  glide  these  "  Thousand  Isles  "  between, 
Lovely  as  fairy-land  to  dreaming  child, 
Sweeping  past  shores  now  fringed  with  verdure  green, 
Now  clasped  by  rocks  and  tangled  forests  wild. 
Anon,  like  arrow  from  an  aim  that 's  true, 
We  dart  adown  the  rapids'  fearful  whirl, 
The  rough  "  Cascades,"  the  less  exciting  "  Sue," 
Where  round  the  rocks  the  foaming  waters  curl. 
And  so  the  day  glides  on.     At  eve  we  near 
The  wild  "  La  Chine,"  peril  on  every  side  ; 
Our  hearts  stand  still,  our  cheeks  grow  pale  with  fear; 
One  plunge :  the  brave  boat  safely  through  doth  ride 
On  where  the  purple  hills  so  grandly  loom, 
All  heedless  now  of  twilight's  gathering  gloom  ! 

Anonymous. 


80  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


THE  COTEAU  RAPID. 

THE  Coteau,  broad,  and  long,  and  boisterous ! 
The  waves  like  white  sea-monsters  plunge  and  roll, 
Mighty,  and  grand,  and  wildly  perilous, 
It  lives  a  life  of  torment.     A  mad  soul 
Seems  shouting  from  each  billow,  and  the  howl 
Of  the  lashed  waters,  as  they  foam  and  writhe, 
Is  as  Despair's  last  shriek,  when  at  the  goal 
Where  all  hope  ends  they  tumble  headlong  with 
A  cry  of  anguish  to  the  yawning  gulf  beneath. 

Mad  cries  of  horror  pierce  the  seething  shore; 
Triumphal  choruses  roll  back  again ; 
Up  from  the  depths  abysmal,  evermore 
Hushes  some  swift  embodiment  of  pain, 
Flying  from  the  fierce  conflict  all  in  vain. 
A  wild,  despairing,  agonizing  cry ; 
A  laugh  of  demons  torturing  the  slain  ; 
Thus  the  sardonic  strife  goes  crashing  by; 
The  nameless  Terror  rolls  its  burden  up  the  sky. 

Prom  isle  to  isle  'twixt  life  and  death  we  speed, 
From  crest  to  crest,  from  wave  to  wave,  we  bound, 
Where  the  scared  billows  seem  to  shun  some  deed 
Of  blanching  horror  in  mad  tumult  drowned ; 
From  isle  to  isle  the  turmoil  rolls  profound. 
The  true  enchantment  this, — no  legend  rare, 
No  wondrous  tale  by  hoar  tradition  crowned, 
But  grand,  terrific,  true  beyond  compare, 
The  vast  sonorous  war  of  passion  shakes  the  air. 


ST.    LAWRENCE    (cADARAQUl),    THE    RIVEE.     81 

But  suddenly  from  the  infernal  whirl 
The  ambling  current  bears  us  far  away, 
Where  no  pursuing  wave  is  seen  to  curl, 
No  rapid  shatters  into  diamond  spray; 
While  far  behind,  the  breakers'  wild  array 
Shout  from  the  watery  slope  their  threatenings  dire, 
Looming  like  Mohawk  ghosts  at  morning  gray, 
With  awful  rage  and  impotent  desire, 
Striking  the  wildest  chords  of  Nature's  mighty  lyre. 

Charles  Sangster. 


RAPIDS  OF  THE  CEDARS. 

AGAIN  the  rush  tumultuous  —  the  bound  — 
The  tossings  to  and  fro  —  the  surge  —  the  swell ; 
The  mighty  uproar,  and  the  crash  profound; 
That  make  the  cedars  a  vast,  watery  hell, 
More  vast  and  grand  than  eloquence  can  tell. 
How  the  strong  surges  strike  the  naked  rocks 
With  Thor-like  force,  with  purpose  mad  and  fell ! 
The  scornful  reef  their  sudden  onset  mocks, 
And  like  a  mail-clad  knight  resists  their  deadliest  shocks. 

As  when  some  host  roused  Tartarus  invades, 
The  vast  deeps  heave  with  being ;  these  white  crests 
Like  furies  seem  to  rise  as  from  the  shades, 
To  wreak  their  urging  Demon's  grim  behests. 
What  power  and  grace,  what  grandeur  here  invests 
The  awful  shapes'  profound  sonorous  chime, 
Could  we  divine  that  voice  that  never  rests, 


82  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  shouts  its  solemn  paean  through  all  time, 
As  the  long  ages  toil  on  their  grand  march  sublime. 

The  waters  strike  the  unprotected  isles, 
And  shake  their  leafy  verdure.     We  can  see 
The  church  spire  yonder  as  the  moonlight  smiles 
Upon  it;   passing  wildly,  fancy-free, 
Where  we  can  touch  the  trees.     In  frolic  glee 
We  ride  the  stoutest  billows  as  the  breeze 
Wafts  down  a  gracious  perfume  on  our  lee, 
Fresh  from  the  Isle  of  Flowers,  where  the  bees 
Sup  with  their  Floral  Queen  on  honeyed  courtesies. 

The  current  seeks  no  rest.     Sullen  and  swift, 
And  hounded  by  the  rapid  in  its  fear, 
Like  a  lost  murderer  it  knows  no  thrift, 
No  peace  forever :    on  his  startled  ear 
A  voice  incessant  peals ;   loud  footfalls  near 
Tell  of  the  dread  pursuer.     So  the  stream 
Hears  far-off  howlings,  vengeful,  shrill,  and  drear, 
Till  like  an  arrow,  like  a  sudden  beam, 
It  strikes  the  vexed  cascades,  and  ends  its  fitful  dream. 

Charles  Sangster. 


EAPIDS  OF  THE  LACHINE. 

WITH  whirl   sublime,  and  with  what  maelstrom 
force, 

The  frantic  waters  strike  our  plunging  bark; 
The  rage  defiant  and  the  thunderings  hoarse, 
These  bring  no  fears  to  our  devoted  ark 


ST.    LAWRENCE    (CADARAQUl),    THE    RIVER.       83 

That  bounds  securely  to  its  distant  mark. 
See  how  the  tortured  deep  heaps  surge  on  surge! 
What  howling  billows  sweep  the  waters  dark ! 
Stunning  the  ear  with  their  stentorian  dirge, 
That  loudens  as  they  lash  the  rocks'  resisting  verge. 

To  what  shall  we  compare  thee,  —  thing  of  dread ! 
What  grand  resistless  Terror,  armed,  art  thou  ? 
Strife's  awful  champion,  autocrat  and  head,  — 
The  mighty  Wrestler  to  whom  all  must  bow- 
That  feel  thine  iron  grasp.     O  stern  of  brow 
As  Lucifer  amid  his  cowering  crew  ! 
How  like  a  scourge,  a  mad  Attila,  now, 
He  charges  with  his  Hun-like  retinue, 
The  flying  hosts  of  waves  to  vanquish  and  subdue  ! 

The  Hounds  of  Peril  guard  this  fearful  spot ; 
And  yet  we  dare  to  tempt  the  narrow  way, 
Cutting  a  passage  through  the  Gordian  Knot 
Of  reefs  and  breakers,  as  the  vast  array 
Here  bursts  in  dazzling  drifts  of  diamond  spray, 
Here  bids  defiance  to  all  human  skill; 
Lifting  up  vast,  herculean  busts  of  gray, 
As  if  to  awe  the  mind  or  shake  the  will, 
Pursuing  us  like  fates  adown  the  tumbling  hill. 

O  awful  Shape  !  that  haunts  the  dread  abysm ; 
That  hold'st  thy  Ueign  of  Terror  evermore; 
What  grave  offence,  what  unforgiven  schism, 
Consigned  thee  hither  from  the  Stygian  shore? 
Why  troublest  thou  the  waters  with  thy  roar  ? 
No  angel  footstep,  thine,  of  rest  and  peace, 


84  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  some  lost  soul's  for  whom  no  open  door 
Leadetli  to  where  thy  spirit-toils  shall  cease, 
With  no  commissioned  arm  stretched  forth  for  thy  re 

lease. 

*  *  * 

And  we  have  passed  the  terrible  Lachine, 
Have  felt  a  fearless  tremor  thrill  the  soul, 
As  the  huge  waves  upreared  their  crests'  of  green, 
Holding  our  feathery  bark  in  their  control, 
As  a  strong  eagle  holds  an  oriole. 
The  brain  grows  dizzy  with  the  whirl  and  hiss 
Of  the  fast-crowding  billows  as  they  roll 
Like  struggling  demons  to  the  vexed  abyss, 
Lashing  the  tortured  crags  with  wild  demoniac  bliss. 

arles  Sangster. 


'"'  INVOCATION. 

0  FRIEND,  amid  the  stately  pines 
That  murmurous  music  yield  to  thee, 
Recall'st  thou  the  enchanted  climes, 

St.  Lawrence,  broad  and  clear  and  free  ? 
What  time  we  sailed  in  summer  calm, 

With  moonlight  glinting  wave  and  beach, 
To  meet  the  south-wind's  kiss  of  balm, 
Surpassing  melody  of  speech? 

At  night  when  the  Nevada  gleams, 
Like  castle  turrets,  white  and  cold, 

And  all  the  azure  archway  streams 
With  oriflamme  of  gems  and  gold; 


ST.    LAWRENCE    (CADARAQUl),    THE    RIVER.       85 

Upon  thy  lovely  snow-crowned  beat, 
Where  foams  and  falls  the  mountain  rill, 

Come  visions  of  our  voyage  sweet, 
By  sheltered  bay  and  wooded  hill? 

And  fairy  isles  that  slept  serene 

Upon  the  river's  peaceful  breast, 
While  cloth  of  gold  some  naiad  queen 

Trailed  regally  along  the  west ! 
With  furrows  left  by  gliding  keel, 

And  lilies  clasping  to  their  hearts, 
The  golden  secrets  stars  reveal 

When  rosy  day  at  length  departs? 

Still  on  and  on,  as  spirits  float, 

Through  waves  of  ether  opal -rifted, 
Too  blest,  em-apt,  to  even  note 

If  down  to  death  we  slowly  drifted. 
Now  sighing  faint,  with  clover  gales, 

The  distant  bells  rang  out  delight. 
Anon  the  dusky  grotto  vales,  — 

A  fitting  scene  for  such  a  night. 

Ah !   from  thy  lips  that  keep  for  me 

Poems  no  bard  hath  ever  sung, 
Still  falls  the  entrancing  melody 

Of  Grecian  isle,  when  Time  was  young ! 
Fair  River,  clasp  unto  thy  breast 

Our  love,  —  nay,  tell  it  to  the  main  ! 
-  Old  Ocean,  bear  it  to  the  West ! 
And  wake  his  smile  for  me  again. 

Helen  Rich. 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 


THE  THOUSAND  ISLES. 

Tin  IS  evening  tide,  the  mottled  sky 

-L   Is  glorious  in  the  sinking  snn; 
Now  Heaven's  serene  immensity 

Seems  flashing  forth  the  words,  "  Well  done ! " 
And  sacred,  superhuman  hues 

Adorn  the  dim  declivity, 
And  shape  the  intermingling  views 

As  fair  as  Eden's  landscapes  be. 
Our  bark,  like  fate's  strange  shuttle  through 

The  azure  web,  threads  onward  where 
Green  islands  fleck  the  liquid  blue, 

As  low  clouds  fleck  the  living  air. 

Which  is  an  isle,  and  which  can  be 
A  cloud,  is  half  a  mystery ; 
Both  are  of  a  supernal  growth, 
And  Sol's  last  radiance  sets  on  both 
In  one  fond  blush  of  pensive  hues 
(They  softly  flash  and  interfuse), 
As  if  to  beckon  us  away 
Beyond  the  precincts  of  decay. 
And  we  Avould  follow  him  in  high 
Immeasurable  majesty, 
By  one  oblivious  plunge  to  be 
Prom  human  solitude  set  free, 
But  fear  the  night,  so  soon  to  cast 
This  glory  by,  may  ever  last. 


ST.    LAWRENCE    (CADARAQUl),    THE    RIVER.       87 

Some  isles  are  rocky  bastions  old, 
Shaped  when  the  ancient  ages  rolled 
Around  their  tlmnder-rended  forms 
Earthquakes  and  uiiremembered  storms. 
But  some  are  exquisitely  planned 
By  Beauty's  spiritual  hand 
Tor  purposes  of  peace,  and  still 
They  have  no  part  in  human  ill. 

Each  hour  a  deeper  ray  emits, 

That  o'er  the  wandering  water  flits, 

Like  sanguine  leaves  when  they  forsake 

The  lofty  branches  for  the  lake  ; 

Such  colors  tinge  the  beams  that  pass 

Yon  cloud's  ensanguined  chrysopras. 

Lo,  every  bird  for  joy  is  still 

In  river,  vale,  or  island  hill; 

And,  past  the  purple  mounts  of  pine, 

Lulling  the  winds  with  wands  divine, 

The  imperial  monarch  of  the  day 

Wheels  his  irrevocable  way 

Far  off,  through  clouds  whose  living  flames 

Would  woo  the  world  to  wiser  aims ; 

Sweet  seraphs,  blushing  for  the  sin 

Of  some  originally  kin  — 

Alas,  how  beautiful !    they  seem 

Through  countless  centuries  to  dream, 

Calm  as  the  peace  that  comes  from  care, 

Pare  as  a  child's  face  flushed  with  prayer, 

Soft  as  a  transient  velvet  rose, 

Still  as  the  waves  when  winds  repose, 


88  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Lone  as  this  solitude  of  green, 
Dim  as  those  purple  depths  unseen, 
Yast  as  the  visions  angels  spread 
Around  a  bard's  or  prophet's  bed, 
As  round  the  seer  of  Patmos  shone 
The  sea  of  glass  and  crystal  throne, 
The  city's  glorious  streets,  and  all 

That  held  his  poet  soul  in  thrall. 
*  *  * 

/.  R.  Ramsay. 

LAKE  OF  THE  THOUSAND  ISLANDS. 

HERE  Nature  holds  her  carnival  of  Isles, 
.  Steeped  in  warm  sunset  all  the  merry  day, 
Each  nodding  tree  arid  floating  greenwood  smiles, 

And  moss-crowned  monsters  move  in  grim  array ; 
All  night  the  fisher  spears  his  finny  prey, 
The  piny  flambeaux  reddening  the  deep 
By  the  dim  shore,  or  up  some  mimic  bay 
Like  grotesque  bandits  as  they  boldly  sweep 
Upon  the  startled  prey,  and  stab  them  while  they  sleep. 

And  many  a  tale  of  legendary  lore 

Is  told  of  these  romantic  Isles.     The  feet    . 
Of  the  red  man  impressed  each  wave-zoned  shore, 

And  many  an  eye  of  beauty  oft  did  greet 
The  painted  warriors  and  their  birchen  fleet, 

As  they  returned  with  trophies  of  the  slain. 
That  race  hath  passed  away :    their  fair  retreat 

In  its  primeval  loneness  smiles  again, 

Save  where  some  vessel  breaks  the  isle-enwoven  chain ; 


'•  Dim  as  those  purple  depths  unseen.'" 


ST.    LAWRENCE,    THE    GULF.  89 

Save  where  the  echo  of  the  huntsman's  gun 
Startles  the  wild  duck  from  some  shallow  nook, 

Or  the  swift  hounds'  deep  baying  as  they  run 
Rouses  the  lounging  student  from  his  book; 

Or  where,  assembled  by  some  sedgy  brook, 
A  picnic  party,  resting  in  the  shade, 

Springs  forward  hastily  to  catch  a  look 
At  the  strong  steamer,  through  the  watery  glade 
Ploughing  like  a  huge  serpent  from  its  ambuscade. 

Charles  Sangster. 


St.  Lawrence,  the  Gulf. 

THE  GULF  OF  ST.  LAWRENCE. 

ST.  LAWRENCE !  yes,  I  well  remember 
Thy  Gulf,  —  that  morning  in  September. 
East  flew  our  ship  careering  lightly 
Over  the  waters  breaking  brightly; 
Alongside  close  as  if  their  aim 
Were  but  her  vaunted  speed  to  shame, 
Sleek  porpoises  like  lightning  went 
Cleaving  the  sunny  element; 
Now  where  the  black  bows  smote  their  way 
How  would  they  revel  in  the  roaring  spray ! 
Like  victors  in  the  contest  now 
Dash  swift  athwart  the  flying  prow; 
Or  springing  forward  three  abreast 
Shoot  slippery  o'er  each  foamy  crest,  — 


90  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Shoot  upwards  in  an  airy  arc 
As  three  abreast  they  passed  the  bark: 
Pied  petrels  coursed  about  the  sea 
And  skimmed  the  billows  dexterously; 

Sank  with  each  hollow,  rose  with  every  hill, 
So  close,  yet  never  touched  them  till 
They  seized  their  prey  with  rapid  bill: 
Afar,  the  cloudy  spurts  of  spray 
Told  that  the  grampus  sported  there 
With  his  ferocious  mates  at  play. 
Meanwhile  the  breeze  that  freshly  blew 
From  every  breaking  wave-top  drew 

A  plume  of  smoke  that  straightway  from  the  sun 
The  colors  of  the  rainbow  won, 
So  that  you  saw,  wherever  turning, 
A  thousand  small  volcanoes  burning, 
Emitting  vapors  of  each  hue 
Of  orange,  purple,  red,  and  blue. 
The  sky  meanwhile  was  all  alive 
With  snow-bright  clouds  that  seemed  to  drive 
Swiftly,  as  though  the  heavens  in  glee 
Were  racing  with  the  racing  sea ; 
Each  flitting  sight  and  rushing  sound 
Spread  life  and  hope  and  joy  around; 
Ship,  birds  and  fishes,  sky  and  ocean, 
All  restless  with  one  glad  emotion ! 

But  what  a  change  !  when  suddenly  we  spy 
Apart  from  all  that  headlong  revelry,  — 

Pencilled  above  the  sky-line,  like  a  spectre  drear, 
A  silent  iceberg  solemnly  appear,— 
Pausing  ghost-like  our  greeting  to  await. 


ST.    LAWRENCE,    THE    GULF.  91 

The  crystal  mountain,  as  we  come  anear 
And  feel  the  airs  that  from  it  creep 
So  chilling  o'er  the  sunny  deep, 
Discloses,  while  it  slowly  shifts, 
Now  blue,  faint-glistening,  semi-lucent  clifts, 
Now  melancholy  peaks,  dead-white  and  desolate. 
But  comes  it  not,  this  guest  unbidden, 
This  wanderer  from  a  home  far-hidden, 
Dim  herald  of  the  mysteries  of  the  Pole, 
With  tidings  from  that  cheerless  region  fraught,  — 
Comes  it  not  o'er  us  like  the  sudden  thought, 
The  haunting  phantom  of  a  world  apart, 

The  blank  and  silent  apparition 
That,  ever  prompt  to  gain  serene  admission, 
Lurks  on  the  crowded  confines  of  the  heart, 
The  many-pictured  purlieus  of  the  soul ; 
Nay,  sometimes  thrusts  its  unexpected  presence 
Upon  our  brightest-tinted  hours  of  pleasaunce  ? 
*  *  * 

Alfred  Domett, 


THE  LOWS-DAY  GALE. 

IN  Gloucester  port  lie  fishing  craft,  — 
More  stanch  and  trim  were  never  seen 
They  are  sharp  before  and  sheer  abaft, 

And  true  their  lines  the  masts  between. 
Along  the  wharves  of  Gloucester  Town 
Their  fares  are  lightly  handed  down, 
And  the  laden  flakes  to  sunward  lean. 


93  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Well  know  the  men  each  cruising-ground, 
And  where  the  cod  and  mackerel  be : 

Old  Eastern  Point  the  schooners  round 
And  leave  Cape  Ann  on  the  larboard  lee : 

Sound  are  the  planks,  the  hearts  are  bold, 

That  brave  December's  surges  cold 
On  Georges'  shoals  in  the  outer  sea. 

And  some  must  sail  to  the  banks  far  north 
And  set  their  trawls  for  the  hungry  cod, — 

In  the  ghostly  fog  creep  back  and  forth 
By  shrouded  paths  no  foot  hath  trod; 

Upon  the  crews  the  ice-winds  blow, 

The  bitter  sleet,  the  frozen  snow, — 
Their  lives  are  in  the  hand  of  God! 

New  England  !  New  England ! 

Needs  sail  they  must,  so  brave  and  poor, 
Or  June  be  warm  or  winter  storm, 

Lest  a  wolf  gnaw  through  the  cottage-door! 
Three  weeks  at  home,  three  long  months  gone, 
While  the  patient  goodwives  sleep  alone, 

And  wake  to  hear  the  breakers  roar. 

The  Grand  Bank  gathers  in  its  dead,  — 
The  deep  sea-sand  is  their  winding-sheet; 

Who  does  not  Georges'  billows  dread 
That  dash  together  the  drifting  fleet? 

Who  does  not  long  to  hear,  in  May, 

The  pleasant  wash  of  Saint  Lawrence  Bay, 
The  fairest  ground  where  fishermen  meet? 


ST.    LAWRENCE,    THE    GULF.  93 

There  the  west  wave  holds  the  red  sunlight 
Till  the  bells  at  home  are  rung  for  nine : 

Short,  short  the  watch,  and  calm  the  night; 
The  fiery  northern  streamers  shine; 

The  eastern  sky  anon  is  gold, 

And  winds  from  piny  forests  old 

Scatter  the  white  mists  off  the  brine. 

The  Province  craft  with  ours  at  morn 
Are  mingled  when  the  vapors  shift; 

All  day,  by  breeze  and  current  borne, 
Across  the  bay  the  sailors  drift; 

With  toll  and  seine  its  wealth  they  win, — 

The  dappled,  silvery  spoil  come  in 
East  as  their  hands  can  haul  and  lift. 

New  England!  New  England! 

Thou  lovest  well  thine  ocean  main! 
It  spreadeth  its  locks  among  thy  rocks, 

And  long  against  thy  heart  hath  lain; 
Thy  ships  upon  its  bosom  ride 
And  feel  the  heaving  of  its  tide; 

To  thee  its  secret  speech  is  plain. 

Cape  Breton  and  Edward  Isle  between, 
In  strait  and  gulf  the  schooners  lay; 

The  sea  was  all  at  peace,  I  ween, 
The  night  before  that  August  day; 

Was  never  a  Gloucester  skipper  there, 

But  thought  erelong,  with  a  right  good  fare, 
To  sail  for  home  from  Saint  Lawrence  Bay. 


94  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

New  England !  New  England  ! 

Thy  giant's  love  was  turned  to  hate  ! 
The  winds  control  his  fickle  soul 

And  in  his  wrath  he  hath  no  mate. 
Thy  shores  his  angry  scourges  tear, 
And  for  thy  children  in  his  £are 

The  sudden,  tempests  lie  in  wait. 

The  East  Wind  gathered  all  unknown, — 
A  thick  sea-cloud  his  course  before; 

He  left  by  night  the  frozen  zone 
And  smote  the  cliffs  of  Labrador; 

He  lashed  the  coasts  on  either  hand, 

And  betwixt  the  Cape  and  Newfoundland 
Into  the  Bay  his  armies  pour. 

He  caught  our  helpless  cruisers  there 

As  a  gray  wolf  harries  the  huddling  fold; 

A  sleet  —  a  darkness  —  filled  the  air, 
A  shuddering  wave  before  it  rolled : 

That  Lord's-Day  morn  it  was  a  breeze,  — 

At  noon,  a  blast  that  shook  the  seas,  — 
At  night  —  a  wind  of  Death  took  hold  ! 

It  leapt  across  the  Breton  bar, 

A  death-wind  from  the  stormy  East! 

It  scarred  the  land,  and  whirled  afar 
The  sheltering  thatch  of  man  and  beast; 

It  mingled  rick  and  roof  and  tree, 

And  like  a  besom  swept  the  sea, 
And  churned  the  waters  into  yeast. 


ST.    LAWRENCE,    THE    GULF.  95 

Prom  Saint  Paul's  light  to  Edward  Isle 

A  thousand  craft  it  smote  amain; 
And  some  against  it  strove  the  while, 

And  more  to  make  a  port  were  fain : 
The  mackerel-gulls  flew  screaming  past, 
And 'the  stick  that  bent  to  the  noonday  blast 

Was  split  by  the  sundown  hurricane. 

Woe,  woe  to  those  whom  the  islands  pen ! 

In  vain  they  shun  the  double  capes  : 
Cruel  are  the  reefs  of  Magdalen ; 

The  Wolfs  white  fang  what  prey  escapes  ? 
The  Grin'stone  grinds  the  bones  of  some, 
And  Coffin  Isle  is  craped  with  foam  ;  — 

On  Deadman's  shore  are  fearful  shapes ! 

Oh,  what  can  live  on  the  open  sea, 
Or  moored  in  port  the  gale  outride? 

The  very  craft  that  at  anchor  be 

Are  dragged  along  by  the  swollen  tide ! 

The  great  storm-wave  came  rolling  west, 

And  tossed  the  vessels  on  its  crest : 
The  ancient  bounds  its  might  defied! 

The  ebb  to  check  it  had  no  power ; 

The  surf  ran  up  an  untold  height; 
It  rose,  nor  yielded,  hour  by  hour, 

A  night  and  day,  a  day  and  night; 
Far  up  the  seething  shores  it  cast 
The  wrecks  of  hull  and  spar  and  mast, 

The  strangled  crews,  —  a  woful  sight  1 


96  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

There  were  twenty  and  more  of  Breton  sail 
East  anchored  on  one  mooring-ground ; 

Each  lay  within  his  neighbor's  hail, 

When  the  thick  of  the  tempest  closed  them  round : 

All  sank  at  once  in  the  gaping  sea,  — 

Somewhere  on  the  shoals  their  corses  be, 
The  foundered  hulks,  and  the  seamen  drowned. 

On  reef  and  bar  our  schooners  drove 
Before  the  wind,  before  the  swell; 

By  the  steep  sand  cliffs  their  ribs  were  stove,  — 
Long,  long  their  crews  the  tale  shall  tell ! 

Of  the  Gloucester  fleet  are  wrecks  threescore; 

Of  the  Province  sail  two  hundred  more 
Were  stranded  in  that  tempest  fell. 

The  bedtime  bells  in  Gloucester  Town 
That  Sabbath  night  rang  soft  and  clear; 

The  sailors'  children  laid  them  down,  — 

Dear  Lord  !  their  sweet  prayers  couldst  thou  hear  ? 

JT  is  said  that  gently  blew  the  winds ; 

The  goodwives,  through  the  seaward  blinds, 
Looked  down  the  bay  and  had  no  fear. 

New  England  !  New  England  ! 

Thy  ports  their  dauntless  seamen  mourn; 
The  twin  capes  yearn  for  their  return 

Who  never  shall  be  thither  borne ; 
Their  orphans  whisper  as  they  meet; 
The  homes  are  dark  in  many  a  street, 

And  women  move  in  weeds  forlorn. 


ST.    LAWRENCE,    THE    GULF.  97 

And  wilt  thou  quail,  and  dost  tliou  fear? 

Ah,  no  !  though  widows'  cheeks  are  pale, 
The  lads  shall  say:  "Another  year, 
And  we  shall  be  of  age  to  sail!" 
And  the  mothers'  hearts  shall  fill  with  pride, 
Though  tears  drop  fast  for  them  who  died 
When  the  fleet  was  wrecked  in  the  Lord's-Day  gale. 
Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


ON  PASSING  DEADMAN'S  ISLAND. 

SEE  you,  beneath  yon  cloud  so  dark, 
East  gliding  along  a  gloomy  bark  ? 
Her  sails  are  full,  —  though  the  wind  is  still, 
And  there  blows  not  a  breath  her  sails  to  fill! 

Say,  what  doth  that  vessel  of  darkness  bear? 
The  silent  calm  of  the  grave  is  there, 
Save  now  and  again  a  death-knell  rung, 
And  the  flap  of  the  sails  with  night-fog  hung. 

There  lieth  a  wreck  on  the  dismal  shore 
Of  cold  and  pitiless  Labrador; 
Where,  under  the  moon,  upon  mounts  of  frost, 
Eull  many  a  mariner's  bones  are  tost. 

Yon  shadowy  bark  hath  been  to  that  wreck, 
And  the  dim  blue  fire,  that  lights  her  deck, 
Doth  play  on  as  pale  and  livid  a  crew 
As  ever  yet  drank  the  churchyard  dew. 


98  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

To  Deadman's  Isle,  in  the  eye  of  the  blast, 
To  Deadman's  Isle,  she  speeds  her  fast; 
By  skeleton  shapes  her  sails  are  furled, 
And  the  hand  that  steers  is  not  of  this  world! 

Oh  !  hurry  thee  on,  —  oh  !  hurry  thee  on, 
Thou  terrible  bark,  ere  the  night  be  gone, 
Nor  let  morning  look  on  so  foul  a  sight 
As  would  blanch  forever  her  rosy  light ! 

Thomas  Moore. 


St.  Regis,   Canada. 

THE  BELL  OF  ST.  REGIS. 

IN  1704,  when  Deerficld  was  taken  by  the  Indians,  a  small  church-bell 
•was  carried  away  on  a  sledge  as  far  as  Lake  Champlain  and  buried.  It 
was  afterwards  taken  up  and  conveyed  to  Canada. 

THE  red  men  came  in  their  pride  and  wrath, 
Deep  vengeance  fired  their  eye, 
And  the  blood  of  the  white  was  in  their  path, 
And  the  flame  from  his  roof  rose  high. 

Then  down  from  the  burning  church  they  tore 

The  bell  of  tuneful  sound, 
And  on  with  their  captive  train  they  bore 
That  wonderful  thing  to  their  native  shore, 

The  rude  Canadian  bound. 

But  now  and  then,  with  a  fearful  tone, 
It  struck  on  their  startled  ear,  — 


ST.    EEGIS.  99 

And  sad  it  was,  mid  the  mountains  lone, 
Or  the  ruined  tempest's  muttered  moan, 
That  terrible  voice  to  hear. 

It  seemed  like  the  question  that  stirs  the  soul 

Of  its  secret  good  or  ill, 
And  they  quaked  as  its  stern  and  solemn  toll 

Re-echoed  from  rock  to  hill. 

And  they  started  up  in  their  broken  dream, 

Mid  the  lonely  forest-shade, 
And  thought  that  they  heard  the  dying  scream, 
And  saw  the  blood  of  slaughter  stream") 

Afresh  through  the  village  glade.^/' 

Then  they  sat  in  council,  those  chieftains  old, 

And  a  mighty  pit  was  made, 
Where  the  lake  with  its  silver  waters  rolled 
They  buried  that  bell  'neath  the  verdant  mould, 

And  crossed  themselves  and  prayed. 

And  there  till  a  stately  powow  came 

It  slept  in  its  tomb  forgot ; 
With  a  mantle  of  fur,  and  a  brow  of  flame, 

He  stood  on  that  burial  spot: 

They  wheeled  the  dance  with  its  mystic  round 

At  the  stormy  midnight  hour, 
And  a  dead  man's  hand  on  his  breast  he  bound, 
And  invoked,  ere  he  broke  that  awful  ground, 

The  demons  of  pride  and  power. 


100 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Then  lie  raised  the  bell,  with  a  nameless  rite, 

Which  none  but  himself  might  tell, 
In  blanket  and  bear-skin  he  bound  it  tight, 
And  it  journeyed  in  silence  both  day  and  night, 
So  strong  was  that  magic  spell. 

It  spake  no  more,  till  St.  Regis'  tower 

In  northern  skies  appeared, 
And  their  legends  extol  that  powow's  power 
Which -lulled  that  knell  like  the  poppy  flower, 
As  conscience  now  slumbereth  a  little  hour 

In  the  cell  of  a  heart  that 's  seared. 

Lydia  Huntley  Sigourney. 


Thames,  the  River,  Canada. 

TECUMSEH. 

WHERE  rolls  the  dark  and  turbid  Thames 
His  consecrated  wave  along, 
Sleeps  one,  than  whose,  few  are  the  names 

More  worthy  of  the  lyre  and  song; 
Yet  o'er  whose  spot  of  lone  repose 

No  pilgrim  eyes  are  seen  to  weep; 
And  no  memorial  marble  throws 
Its  shadow  where  his  ashes  sleep. 

Stop,  stranger!  there  Tecumseh  lies; 
Behold  the  lowly  resting-place 


THAMES,    THE    RIVER.  101 

Of  all  that  of  the  hero  dies  ; 

The  Caesar  —  Tally  —  of  his  race; 
Whose  arm  of  strength  and  fiery  tongue 

Have  won  him  an  immortal  name, 
And  from  the  mouths  of  millions  wrung 

Reluctant  tribute  to  his  fame. 

Stop,  —  for  't  is  glory  claims  thy  tear  ! 

True  worth  belongs  to  all  mankind; 
And  he  whose  ashes  slumber  here, 

Though  man  in  form,  was  god  in  mind. 
What  matter  he  was  not  like  thee 

In  race  and  color,  —  't  is  the  soul 
That  marks  man's  true  divinity, — 

Then  let  not  shame  thy  tears  control. 

Art  thou  a  patriot  ?  —  so  was  he  ! 

His  breast  was  Freedom's  holiest  shrine; 
And  as  thou  bendest  there  thy  knee, 

His  spirit  will  unite  with  thine. 
All  that  a  man  can  give  he  gave, — 

His  life,  —  the  country  of  his  sires 
From  the  oppressor's  grasp  to  save; 

In  vain,  —  quenched  are  his  nation's  fires. 

Art  thou  a  soldier  ?  dost  thou  not 
O'er  deeds  chivalric  love  to  muse? 

Here  stay  thy  steps,  —  what  better  spot 
Couldst  thou  for  contemplation  choose  ? 

The  earth  beneath  is  holy  ground; 
It  holds  a  thousand  valiant  braves ; 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Tread  lightly  o'er  each  little  mound, 
For  they  are  no  ignoble  graves. 

Thermopylae  and  Marathon, 

Though  classic  earth,  can  boast  no  more 
Of  deeds  heroic  than  yon  sun 

Once  saw  upon  this  lonely  shore, 
When  in  a  gallant  nation's  last 

And  deadliest  struggle  for  its  own, 
Tecumseh's  fiery  spirit  passed 

In  blood,  and  sought  its  Father's  throne. 

Oh,  softly  fall  the  summer  dew, 

The  tears  of  heaven,  upon  his  sod, 
For  he  in  life  and  death  was  true 

Both  to  his  country  and  his  God; 
For  oh,  if  God  to  man  has  given, 

From  his  bright  home  beyond  the  skies, 
One  feeling  that  's  akin  to  heaven, 

'T  is  his  who  for  his  country  dies. 

Rest,  warrior,  rest!     Though  not  a  dirge 

Is  thine,  beside  the  wailing  blast, 
Time  cannot  in  oblivion  merge 

The  light  thy  star  of  glory  cast; 
While  heave  yon  high  hills  to  the  sky, 

While  rolls  yon  dark  and  turbid  river, 
Thy  name  and  fame  can  never  die, — 

Whom  Freedom  loves  will  live  forever. 

Charles  A.  Jones. 


DANISH    AMERICA. 

Greenland. 

GREENLAND  UNDER  THE  INFLUENCE  OF  THE  MORAVIANS. 

FIRED  with  a  zeal  peculiar,  they  defy 
The  rage  and  rigor  of  a  polar  sky, 
And  plant  successfully  sweet  Sharon's  rose 
On  icy  plains  and  in  eternal  snows. 
Oh,  blest  within  the  enclosure  of  your  rocks, 
Nor  herds  have  ye  to  boast,  nor  bleating  flocks ; 
No  fertilizing  streams  your  fields  divide, 
That  show  reversed  the  villas  on  their  side; 
No  groves  have  ye  ;  no  cheerful  sound  of  bird, 
Or  voice  of  turtle,  in  your  land  is  heard ; 
Nor  grateful  eglantine  regales  the  smell 
Of  those  that  walk  at  evening  where  ye  dwell ; 
But  Winter,  armed  with  terrors  here  unknown, 
Sits  absolute  on  his  unshaken  throne  ; 
Piles  up  his  stores  amidst  the  frozen  waste, 
And  bids  the  mountains  he  has  built  stand  fast; 
Beckons  the  legions  of  his  storms  away 
From  happier  scenes,  to  make  your  land  a  prey, 


104  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Proclaims  the  soil  a  conquest  lie  has  won, 
And  scorns  to  share  it  with  the  distant  sun. 
Yet  Truth  is  yours,  remote,  unenvied  isle  ! 
And  Peace,  the  genuine  offspring  of  her  smile; 
The  pride  of  lettered  ignorance,  that  binds 
In  chains  of  error  our  accomplished  minds, 
That  decks  with  all  the  splendor  of  the  true 
A  false  religion,  is  unknown  to  you. 
Nature,  indeed,  vouchsafes  for  our  delight 
The  sweet  vicissitudes  of  day  and  night; 
Soft  airs  and  genial  moisture  feed  and  cheer 
Field,  fruit,  and  flower,  and  every  creature  here : 
But  brighter  beams  than  his  who  fires  the  skies 
Have  risen  "at  length  on  your  admiring  eyes, 
That  shoot  into  your  darkest  caves  the  day 
From  which  our  nicer  optics  turn  away. 

William  Cowper. 

GREENLAND. 

LET  Greenland's  snows 
Then  shine,  and  mark  the  melancholy  train 
There  left  to  perish,  whilst  the  cold  pale  day 
Declines  along  the  further  ice,  that  binds 
The  ship,  and  leaves  in  night  the  sinking  scene. 
Sad  winter  closes  on  the  deep;   the  smoke 
Of  frost,  that  late  amusive  to  the  eye 
Rose  o'er  the  coast,  is  passed,  and  all  is  now 
One  torpid  blank;   the  freezing  particles 
Blown  blistering,  and  the  white  bear  seeks  her  cave. 
Ill-fated  outcasts,  when  the  morn  again 


GREENLAND. 


105 


Shall  streak  with  feeble  beam  the  frozen  waste, 
Your  air-bleached  and  unburied  carcasses 
Shall  press  the  ground,  and,  as  the  stars  fade  off, 
Your  stony  eyes  glare  mid  the  desert  snows ! 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


GKEENLAND. 

THE  moon  is  watching  in  the  sky;  the  stars 
Are  swiftly  wheeling  on  their  golden  cars ; 
Ocean,  outstretched  with  infinite  expanse, 
Serenely  slumbers  in  a  glorious  trance ; 
The  tide,  o'er  which  no  troubling  spirits  breathe, 
Reflects  a  cloudless  firmament  beneath; 
Where,  poised  as  in  the  centre  of  a  sphere, 
A  ship  above  and  ship  below  appear; 
A  double  image,  pictured  on  the  deep, 
The  vessel  o'er  its  shadow  seems  to  sleep  : 
Yet,  like  the  host  of  heaven,  that  never  rest, 
With  evanescent  motion  to  the  west 
The  pageant  glides  through  loneliness  and  night, 
And  leaves  behind  a  rippling  wake  of  light. 

*  *  * 

Light-breathing^  gales  awhile  their  course  propel, 
The  billows  roll  with  pleasurable  swell, 
Till  the  seventh  dawn;    when  o'er  the  pure  expanse 
The  sun,  like  lightning,  throws  his  earliest  glance, 
"Land!  Land!"  exclaims  the  ship-boy  from  the  mast, 
"  Land  !  Land  !  "  with  one  electric  shock  hath  passed 
From  lip  to  lip,  and  every  eye  hath  caught 


106  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  cheering  glimpse  so  long,  so  dearly  sought : 
Yet  must  imagination  half  supply 
The  doubtful  streak,  dividing  sea  and  sky; 
Nor  clearly  known,  till,  in  sublimer  day, 
From  icy  cliffs  refracted  splendors  play, 
And  clouds  of  sea-fowl  high  in  ether  sweep, 
Or  fall  like  stars  through  sunshine  on  the  deep. 
'T  is  Greenland  !   but  so  desolately  bare, 
Amphibious  life  alone  inhabits  there; 
'T  is  Greenland  !   yet  so  beautiful  the  sight, 
The  Brethren  gaze  with  undisturbed  delight : 
In  silence  (as  before  the  throne)  they  stand, 
And  pray,  in  prospect  of  that  promised  land, 
That  He,  who  sends  them  thither,  may  abide 
Through  the  waste  howling  wilderness  their  guide; 
And  the  Good  Shepherd  seek  his  straying  flocks, 
Lost  on  those  frozen  waves  and  herbless  rocks, 
By  the  still  waters  of  his  comforts  lead, 
And  in  the  pastures  of  salvation  feed. 

*  *  * 

Behold  a  scene,  magnificent  and  new; 
Nor  land  nor  water  meets  the  excursive  view ; 
The  round  horizon  girds  one  frozen  plain, 
The  mighty  tombstone  of  the  buried  main, 
Where,  dark  and  silent,  and  un^lt  to  flow, 
A  dead  sea  sleeps  with  all  its  tribes  below. 
But  heaven  is  still  itself;    the  deep-blue  sky 
Comes  down  with  smiles  to  meet  the  glancing  eye, 
Though,  if  a  keener  sight  its  bound  would  trace, 
The  arch  recedes  through  everlasting  space. 
The  sun,  in  morning  glory,  mounts  his  throne, 


GREENLAND.  107 

Nor  shines  he  here  in  solitude  unknown; 
North,  south,  and  west,  by  dogs  or  reindeer  drawn, 
Careering  sledges  cross  the  unbroken  lawn, 
And  bring,  from  bays  and  forelands  round  the  coast, 
Youth,  beauty,  valor,  Greenland's  proudest  boast, 
Who  thus,  in  winter's  long  and  social  reign, 
Hold  feasts  and  tournaments  upon  the  main, 
When,  built  of  solid  floods,  his  bridge  extends 
A  highway  o'er  the  gulf  to  meeting  friends, 
Whom  rocks  impassable,  or  winds  and  tide, 
Fickle  and  false,  in  summer  months  divide. 

The  scene  runs  round  with  motion,  rings  with  mirth, 
—  No  happier  spot  upon  the  peopled  earth ; 
The  drifted  snow  to  dust  the  travellers  beat, 
The  uneven  ice  is  flint  beneath  their  feet. 
Here  tents,  a  gay  encampment,  rise  around, 
Where  music,  song,  and  revelry  "resound ; 
There  the  blue  smoke  upwreathes  a  hundred  spires, 
Where  humbler  groups  have  lit  their  pine-wood  fires. 
Erelong  they  quit  the  tables;    knights  and  dames 
Lead  the  blithe  multitude  to  boisterous  games. 
Bears,  wolves,  and  lynxes  yonder  head  the  chase; 
Here  start  the  harnessed  reindeer  in  the  race; 
Borne  without  wheels,  a  flight  of  rival  cars 
Track  the  ice-firmament,  like  shooting  stars, 
Right  to  the  goal,  —  converging  as  they  run, 
They  dwindle  through  the  distance  into  one. 
Where  smoother  waves  have  formed  a  sea  of  glass, 
With  pantomimic  change  the  skaters  pass; 
Now  toil  like  ships  'gainst  wind  and  stream ;  then  wheel 


108  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Like  flames  blown  suddenly  asunder;  reel 
Like  drunkards;   then,  dispersed  in  tangents  wide, 
Away  with  speed  invisible  they  glide. 
Peace  in  their  hearts,  death-weapons  in  their  hands, 
Fierce  in  mock-battle  meet  fraternal  bands, 
Whom  the  same  chiefs  erewhile  to  conflict  led, 
When  friends  by  friends,  by  kindred  kindred,  bled. 
Here  youthful  rings  with  pipe  and  drum  advance, 
And  foot  the  mazes  of  the  giddy  dance; 
Graybeard  spectators,  with  illumined  eye, 
Lean  on  their  staves,  and  talk  of  days  gone  by; 
Children,  who  mimic  all,  from  pipe  and  drum 
To  chase  and  battle,  dream  of  years  to  come. 
Those  years  to  come,  the  young  shall  ne'er  behold; 
The  days  gone  by  no  more  rejoice  the  old. 
*  *  * 

Ocean,  meanwhile,  abroad  hath  burst  the  roof 
That  sepulchred  his  waves  ;   he  bounds  aloof. 
In  boiling  cataracts,  as  volcanoes  spout 
Their  fiery  fountains,  gush  the  waters  out ; 
The  frame  of  ice  with  dire  explosion  rends, 
And  down  the  abyss  the  mingled  crowd  descends. 
Heaven!  from  this  closing  horror  hide  thy  light; 
Cast  thy  thick  mantle  o'er  it,  gracious  Night ! 
These  screams  of 'mothers  with  their  infants  lost, 
These  groans  of  agony  from  wretches  tost 
On  rocks  and  whirlpools,  —  in  thy  storms  be  drowned, 
The  crash  of  mountain-ice  to  atoms  ground, 
And  rage  of  elements  !  —  while  winds,  that  yell 
Like  demons,  peal  the  universal  knell, 
The  shrouding  waves  around  their  limbs  shall  spread, 


GKEENLAND.  109 

"And  Darkness  be  the  burier  of  the  dead." 

Their  pangs  are  o'er; — at  morn  the  tempests  cease, 

And  the  freed  ocean  rolls  himself  to  peace; 

Broad  to  the  sun  his  heaving  breast  expands, 

He  holds  his  mirror  to  a  hundred  lands ; 

While  cheering  gales  pursue  the  eager  chase 

Of  billows  round  immeasurable  space. 

Where  are  the  multitudes  of  yesterday? 
At  morn  they  came;   at  eve  they  passed  away. 
Yefr  some  survive  ;  —  yon  castellated  pile 
Floats  on  the  surges,  like  a  fairy  isle: 
Pre-eminent  upon  its  peak,  behold, 
With  walls  of  amethyst  and  roofs  of  gold, 
The  semblance  of  a  city;   towers  and  spires 
Glance  in  the  firmament  with  opal  fires : 
Prone  from  those  heights  pellucid  fountains  flow 
O'er  pearly  meads,  through  emerald  vales  below. 
No  lovelier  pageant  moves  beneath  the  sky, 
Nor  one  so  mournful  to  the  nearer  eye ; 
Here,  when  the  bitterness  of  death  had  passed 
O'er  others,  with  their  sledge  and  reindeer  cast, 
Five  wretched  ones  in  dumb  despondence  wait 
The  lingering  issue  of  a  nameless  fate ; 
A  bridal  party ;  —  mark  yon  reverend  sage 
In  the  brown  vigor  of  autumnal  age ; 
His  daughter  in  her  prime;   the  youth,  who  won 
Her  love  by  miracles  of  prowess  done ; 
With  these,  two  meet  companions  of  their  joy, 
Her  younger  sister,  and  a  gallant  boy, 
Who  hoped,  like  him,  a  gentle  heart  to  gain 


110  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

By  valorous  enterprise  on  land  or  main. 

—  These,  when  the  ocean-pavement  failed  their  feet, 

Sought  on  a  glacier's  crags  a  safe  retreat; 

But  in  the  shock,  from  its  foundation  torn, 

That  mass  is  slowly  o'er  the  waters  borne, 

An  iceberg !  —  on  whose  verge  all  day  they  stand, 

And  eye  the  blank  horizon's  ring  for  land. 

All  night  around  a  dismal  flame  they  weep ; 

Their  sledge,  by  piecemeal,  lights  the  hoary  deep 

Morn  brings  no  comfort:  at  her  dawn  expire 

The  latest  embers  of  their  latest  fire  ;  * 

Eor  warmth  and  food  the  patient  reindeer  bleeds, 

Happier  in  death  than  those  he  warms  and  feeds. 

*  *  * 

Ages  are  fled ;    and  Greenland's  hour  draws  nigh ; 
Sealed  is  the  judgment;    all  her  race  must  die: 
Commerce  forsakes  the  unvoyageable  seas, 
That  year  by  year  with  keener  rigor  freeze ; 
The  embargoed  waves  in  narrower  channels  roll 
To  blue  Spitsbergen  and  the  utmost  pole  : 
A  hundred  colonies,  erewhile  that  lay 
On  the  green  marge  of  many  a  sheltered  bay, 
Lapse  to  the  wilderness ;   their  tenants  throng 
Where  streams  in  summer,  turbulent  and  strong, 
With  molten  ice  from  inland  Alps  supplied, 
Hold  free  communion  with  the  breathing  tide, 
That  from  the  heart  of  ocean  sends  the  flood 
Of  living  water  round  the  world,  like  blood : 
But  Greenland's  pulse  shall  slow  and  slower  beat, 
Till  the  last  spark  of  genial  warmth  retreat, 
And,  like  a  palsied  limb  of  Nature's  frame, 


GREENLAND.  Ill 

Greenland  be  nothing  but  a  place  and  name. 

That  crisis  comes;   the  wafted  fuel  fails; 

The  cattle  perish ;   famine  long  prevails ; 

With  torpid  sloth,  intenser  seasons  bind 

The  strength  of  muscle  and  the  spring  of  mind ; 

Man  droops,  his  spirits  waste,  his  powers  decay, 

His  generation  soon  shall  pass  away. 

At  moonless  midnight,  on  this  naked  coast, 
How  beautiful  in  heaven  the  starry  host ! 
With  lambent  brilliance  o'er  these  cloister-walls, 
Slant  from  the  firmament  a  meteor  falls ; 
A  steadier  flame  from  yonder  beacon  streams, 
To  light  the  vessel,  seen  in  golden  dreams 
By  many  a  pining  wretch,  whose  slumbers  feign 
The  bliss  for  which  he  looks  at  morn  in  vain. 
Two  years  are  gone,  and  half  expired  a  third 
(The  nation's  heart  is  sick  with  hope  deferred), 
Since  last  for  Europe  sailed  a  Greenland  prow, 
Her  whole  marine,  —  so  shorn  is  Greenland  now, 
Though  once,  like  clouds  in  ether  unconfined, 
Her  naval  wings  were  spread  to  every  wind. 
The  monk  who  sits,  the  weary  hours  to  count, 
In  the  lone  block-house  on  the  beacon-mount, 
Watching  the  east,  beholds  the  morning  star 
Eclipsed  at  rising  o'er  the  waves  afar, 
As  if — for  so  would  fond  expectance  think  — 
A  sail  had  crossed  it  on  the  horizon's  brink. 
His  fervent  soul,  in  ecstasy  outdrawn, 
Glows  with  the  shadows  kindling  through  the  dawn, 
Till  every  bird  that  flashes  through  the  brine 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Appears  an  armed  and  gallant  brigantine; 

And  every  sound  along  the  air  that  comes, 

The  voice  of  clarions  and  the  roll  of  drums. 

'T  is  she  !  't  is  she  !  the  well-known  keel  at  last, 

With  Greenland's  banner  streaming  at  the  mast; 

The  full-swob,  sails,  the  spring-tide,  and  the  breeze 

Waft  on  her  way  the  pilgrim  of  the  seas. 

The  monks  at  matins,  issuing  from  their  cells, 

Spread  the  glad  tidings ;   while  their  convent-bells 

Wake  town  arid  country,  sea  and  shore,  to  bliss 

Unknown  for  years  on  any  morn  but  this. 

Men,  women,  children,  throng  the  joyous  strand, 

Whose  mob  of  moving  shadows  o'er  the  sand 

Lengthen  to  giants,  while  the  hovering  sun 

Lights  up  a  thousand  radiant  points  from  one. 

The  pilots  launch  their  boats;  —  a  race!   a  race! 

The  strife  of  oars  is  seen  in  every  face ; 

Arm  against  arm  puts  forth  its  might  to  reach, 

And  guide  the  welcome  stranger  to  the  beach. 

Shouts  from  the  shore,  the  cliffs,  the  boats,  arise; 

No  voice,  no  signal,  from  the  ship  replies  ; 

Nor  on  the  deck,  the  yards,  the  bow,  the  stern, 

Can  keenest  eye  a  human  form  discern. 

Oh !  that  those  eyes  were  opened,  there  to  see 

How,  in  serene  and  dreadful  majesty, 

Sits  the  destroying  Angel  at  the  helm  ! 

He  who  hath  lately  marched  from  realm  to  realm 

And,  from  the  palace  to  the  peasant's  shed, 

Made  all  the  living  kindred  to  the  dead: 

Nor  man  alone,  —  dumb  nature  felt  his  wrath, 

Drought,  mildew,  murrain,  strewed  his  carnage-path; 


GREENLAND.  113 

Harvest  and  vintage  cast  their  timeless  fruit, 
Forests  before  him  withered  from  the  root. 
To  Greenland  now,  with  unexhausted  power, 
He  comes  commissioned;  and  in  evil  hour 
Propitious  elements  prepare  his  way; 
His  day  of  landing  is  a  festal  day. 

A  boat  arrives ;  —  to  those  who  scale  the  deck, 
Of  life  appears  but  one  disastrous  wreck  ! 
Fallen  from  the  rudder,  which  he  fain  had  grasped, 
But  stronger  Death  his  wrestling  hold  unclasped, 
The  film  of  darkness  freezing  o'er  his  eyes, 
A  lukewarm  corpse,  the  brave  commander  lies; 
Survivor  sole  of  all  his  buried  crew, 
Whom  one  by  one  the  rife  contagion  slew, 
Just  when  the  cliffs  of  Greenland  cheered  his  sight, 
Even  from  their  pinnacle  his  soul  took  flight. 
Chilled  at  the  spectacle,  the  pilots  gaze 
One  on  another,  lost  in  blank  amaze  ; 
But,  from  approaching  boats  when  rivals  throng, 
They  seize  the  helm,  in  silence  steer  along, 
And  cast  their  anchor,  midst  exulting  cries, 
That  make  the  rocks  the  echoes  of  the  skies, 
Till  the  mysterious  signs  of  woes  to  come, 
Circled  by  whispers,  strike  the  uproar  dumb. 
Rumor  affirms,  that  by  some  heinous  spell 
Of  Lapland  witches  crew  and  captain  fell; 
None  guess  the  secret  of  perfidious  fate, 

Which  all  shall  know  too  soon,  —  yet  know  too  late. 
*  *  * 

Comes  there  no  ship  again  to  Greenland's  shore  ? 
There  comes  another;  —  there  shall  come  no  more; 


114  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Nor  tins  shall  reach  a  haven: — What  are  these 

Stupendous  monuments  upon  the  seas  ? 

Works  of  Omnipotence,  in  wondrous  forms, 

Immovable  as  mountains  in  the  storms? 

Far  as  Imagination's  eye  can  roll, 

One  range  of  Alpine  glaciers  to  the  pole 

Flanks  the  whole  eastern  coast ;   and,  branching  wide, 

Arches  o'er  many  a  league  the  indignant  tide, 

That  works  and  frets,  with  unavailing  flow, 

To  mine  a  passage  to  the  beach  below; 

Thence  from  its  neck  that  winter-yoke  to  rend, 

And  down  the  gulf  the  crashing  fragments  send. 

There  lies  a  vessel  in  this  realm  of  frost, 

Not  wrecked,  nor  stranded,  yet  forever  lost : 

Its  keel  embedded  in  the  solid  mass; 

Its  glistening  sails  appear  expanded  glass; 

The  transverse  ropes  with  pearls  enormous  strung, 

The  yards  with  icicles  grotesquely  hung, 

Wrapt  in  the  topmost  shrouds  there  rests  a  boy, 

His  old  sea-faring  father's  only  joy  : 

Sprung  from  a  race  of  rovers,  ocean-born, 

Nursed  at  the  helm,  he  trod  dry  land  with  scorn ; 

Through  fourscore  years  from  port  to  port  he  veered, 

Quicksand,  nor  rock,  nor  foe,  nor  tempest  feared ; 

Now  cast  ashore,  though  like  a  hulk  he  lie, 

His  son  at  sea  is  ever  in  his  eye, 

And  his  prophetic  thought,  from  age  to  age, 

Esteems  the  waves  his  offspring's  heritage : 

He  ne'er  shall  know,  in  his  Norwegian  cot, 

How  brief  that  son's  career,  how  strange  his  lot; 

Writhed  round  the  mast,  and  sepulchred  in  air, 


GREENLAND.  115 

Him  shall  no  worm  devour,  no  vulture  tear; 
Congealed  to  adamant,  his  frame  shall  last, 
Though  empires  change,  till  time  and  tide  be  past. 

On  deck,  in  groups  embracing  as  they  died, 
Singly,  erect,  or  slumbering  side  by  side, 
Behold  the  crew !  —  They  sailed,  with  hope  elate, 
For  eastern  Greenland;   till,  ensnared  by  fate, 
In  toils  that  "mocked  their  utmost  strength  and  skill 
They  felt,  as  by  a  charm,  their  ship  stand  still: 
The  madness  of  the  wildest  gale  that  blows 
Were  mercy  to  that  shudder  of  repose, 
When  withering  horror  struck  from  heart  to  heart 
The  blunt  rebound  of  Death's  benumbing  dart, 
And  each,  a  petrifaction  at  his  post, 
Looked  on  yon  father,  and  gave  up  the  ghost : 
He,  meekly  kneeling,  with  his  hands  upraised, 
His  beard  of  driven  snow,  eyes  fixed  and  glazed, 
Alone  among  the  dead  shall  yet  survive, 
The  imperishable  dead,  that  seem  alive; 
The  immortal  dead,  whose  spirits,  breaking  free, 
Bore  his  last  words  into  eternity, 
While  with  a  seraph's  zeal,  a  Christian's  love, 
Till  his  tongue  failed,  he  spoke  of  joys  above. 
Now  motionless,  amidst  the  icy  air, 
He  breathes  from  marble  lips  unuttered  prayer. 
The  clouds  condensed,  with  dark  unbroken  hue 
Of  stormy  purple,  overhang  his  view, 
Save  in  the  west,  to  which  he  strains  his  sight, 
One  golden  streak,  that  grows  intensely  bright, 
Till  thence  the  emerging  sun,  with  lightning  blaze, 


116  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Pours  the  whole  quiver  of  his  arrowy  rays  : 
The  smitten  rocks  to  instant  diamond  turn, 
And  round  the  expiring  saint  such  visions  burn 
As  if  the  gates  of  Paradise  were  thrown 
Wide  open  to  receive  his  soul; — 'tis  flown: 
The  glory  vanishes,  and  over  all 
Cimmerian  darkness  spreads  her  funeral  pall ! 

Morn  shall  return,  and  noon,  and  eve,  and  night 
Meet  here  with  interchanging  shade  and  light : 
But  from  this  bark  no  timber  shall  decay, 
Of  these  cold  forms  no  feature  pass  away ; 
Perennial  ice  around  the  encrusted  bow, 
The  peopled  deck,  and  full-rigged  masts,  shall  grow, 
Till  from  the  sun  himself  the  whole  be  hid, 
Or  spied  beneath  a  crystal  pyramid ; 
As  in  pure  amber,  with  divergent  lines, 
A  rugged  shell  embossed  with  sea-weed  shines. 

James  Montgomery* 


MEXICO. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


MEXICO. 

WHERE  Mexic  hills  the  breezy  gulf  defend, 
Spontaneous  groves  with  richer  burdens  bend 
Anana's  stalk  its  shaggy  honors  yields; 
Aeassia's  flowers  perfume  a  thousand  fields; 
Their  clustered  dates  the  mast-like  palms  unfold; 
The  spreading  orange  waves  a  load  of  gold; 
Connubial  vines  o'ertop  the  larch  they  climb; 
The  long-lived  olive  mocks  the  moth  of  time; 
Pomona's  pride,  that  old  Grenada  claims, 
Here  smiles  and  reddens  in  diviner  flames; 
Pimento,  citron,  scent  the  sky  serene; 
White,  woolly  clusters  fringe  the  cotton's  green; 
The  sturdy  fig,  the  frail  deciduous  cane, 
And  foodful  cocoa  fan  the  sultry  plain. 
Here,  in  one  view,  the  same  glad  branches  bring 
The  fruits  of  autumn  and  the  flowers  of  spring; 
No  wintry  blasts  the  unchanging  year  deform, 
Nor  beasts  unsheltered  fear  the  pinching  storm; 


118  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  vernal  breezes  o'er  the  blossoms  rove, 

And  breathe  the  ripened  juices  through  the  grove. 

Joel  Barlow. 

MEXICO. 

FAIR  Mexico,  that,  trembling  in  her  chains, 
Saw  ruthless  strangers  waste  her  peaceful  plains, 
Where  are  the  stately  domes  she  reared  of  old, 
Her  terraced  shrines  that  blazed  with  gems  and  gold  ? 
Where  her  white-feathered  chiefs  that  lined  each  steep, 
Like  foamy  waves  which  crest  the  breezy  deep? 
Alas  !  her  tale  is  traced  in  tears  and  flame  • 
Let  History  blush  to  write  a  Cortes'  name ; 
Lo  !  where  the  fires  ascend  from  yonder  vale ! 
Ye  hear  the  stake-bound  victims'  dying  wail. 
Doth  not  a  groan  each  turf-clad  barrow  yield, 
From  those  who  fell  on  red  Otumba's  field? 
While  on  each  murmuring  wind  that  wanders  by 

Floats  royal  Montezuma's  fruitless  sigh. 
*  *  * 

Nicholas  Midi  ell, 

RUINS  IN  MEXICO  AND  CENTRAL  AMERICA. 

A  RUINED  city !     In  the  heart 
Of  the  deep  wilderness  of  woods 
It  stands  immured,  —  where  seldom  foot 
Of  passing  traveller  intrudes. 
The  groves  primeval  year  by  year 
Above  the  spot  renew  their  blooms, 
Year  after  year  cast  down  their  wealth 
Of  foliage  in  these  desert  tombs. 


INTRODUCTORY.  119 

Altar  and  idol  here  arise 

Inscribed  with  hieroglyphics  strange ; 

Column  and  pyramid  sublime, 

Defaced  by  centuries  of  change. 

Here  idols  from  their  pedestals 

Displaced  by  roots  of  mightiest  girth; 

There,  by  a  close-embracing  branch 

Half  lifted  in  the  air  from  earth ; 

Or  from  their  stations  prostrate  thrown, 

Their  huge  proportions  strew  the  ground, 

With  vines  and  brambles  overgrown, 

With  interlacing  creepers  bound. 

No  sound  of  life !  save  when  at  eve 

The  Indian's  hatchet  cleaves  through  wood, 

Or  trips  the  Indian  damsel  by, 

Singing  to  cheer  the  solitude. 

No  sound,  save  when  the  sobbing  breeze 

Sighs  through  the  forest's  dim  arcades, 

Or  shrill  call  of  the  red  macaw, 

Or  parrot's  gabble  in  the  glades; 

Or  when  the  chattering  monkey  troop 

Glide  o'er  the  tree-tops  in  their  race, 

Like  wandering  spirits  of  the  dead, 

Haunting  the  shadows  of  the  place. 

Egypt's  colossal  skeletons 
Of  temples  and  of  wondrous  shrines, 
In  the  unwatered  sands  repose, 
Where  hot  the  sultry  summer  shines; 
But  forests  lonely  and  immense 


120 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Enshroud  these  ruins  from  the  sight, 

And  with  their  tangled  barriers  guard 

The  hidden  secrets  from  the  light. 

Tradition  has  no  tale  to  tell 

And  science  no  record  to  give 

Of  those  who  reared  these  ancient  walls, 

Of  the  lost  race  that  here  did  live. 

All  desolate  these  ruins  rest, 
Like  bark  that  in  mid-ocean  rolls, 
Her  name  effaced,  her  masts  o'erthrown, 
And  none  remaining  of  the  souls 
That  once  sailed  in  her.  to  relate 
From  what  far-distant  port  she  came ; 
Whither  she  sailed  and  what  her  fate, 
And  what  her  nation  and  her  name. 
But  only  may  conjecture  guess 
The  fancied  story  of  this  place, 
And  from  these  crumbling  ruins  gain 
Some  knowledge  of  the  vanished  race. 

The  wanderer  from  foreign  land 
With  awe  beholds  each  mystic  spot, 
Ruins  of  unrecorded  years, 
The  relics  of  a  race  forgot. 
Beneath  each  gray,  sepulchral  cairn 
He  delves  to  find  the  heathen  bones, 
The  statues  of  imperial  kings, 
The  broken  monumental  stones. 
All  round  are  sculptured  pedestals 
Mid  shivered  columns  wide  outspread, 
Where  mighty  roots  of  forest  trees 


•      INTRODUCTORY.  121 

Spring  from  the  ashes  of  the  dead, 
That  in  their  growth  had  levelled  low 
The  pyramids  the  soil  that  strow. 

Here  flowering  creepers,  glossy  vines, 
The  shattered  monoliths  o'erswept, 
And  flowers  mid  painted  potteries 
And  shapely  urns  luxuriant  crept. 
The  dust  with  antique  treasure  teems, 
Weapons  and  ornaments  of  yore, 
Great  vases  carved  in  arabesques, 
Idols,  that  heathen  tribes  adore. 

Out  in  the  green  savanna  lands 

The  prostrate  stones  in  masses  lay, 

Colossal  heads  with  staring  eyes 

And  fractured  limbs  of  granite  gray; 

The  ruins  of  a  race  extinct, 

The  hieroglyphs  of  language  dead, 

Memorials  of  rites  long  lost, 

The  arms,  the  wealth  of  empires  fled. 

The  stranger's  voice  with  awe  is  stilled, 
His  soul  with  fascination  filled, 
When  musing  in  that  silent  mood, 
With  sad,  gray  plains  extended  round, 
Amid  the  hum  of  insect  life, 
Mid  trees  with  scarlet  blossoms  crowned, 
Mid  all  the  bloom  and  solemn  pomp 
Of  tropic  nature's  wondrous  place, 
Amid  the  temples  and  the  graves 

Of  a  once  haughty,  vanished  race. 

Isaac  McLellan. 


122  POEMS    OF    PLACES.. 


EL  PALO  SANTO. 

TN  the  deep  woods  of  Mexico, 

Where  screams  the  painted  paroquet, 
Where  mocking-birds  flit  to  and  fro, 

With  borrowed  notes  they  half  forget; 
Where  brilliant  flowers  and  poisonous  vines 

Are  mingled  in  a  firm  embrace, 
And  the  same  gaudy  plant  entwines 

Some  reptile  of  a  venomed  race; 
Where  spreads  the  Itos'  chilly  shade, 

Benumbing,  even  in  summer's  heat, 
The  weary  traveller  who  hath  laid 

Himself  to  noonday  slumbers  sweet; 
Where  skulks  unseen  the  beast  of  prey, 

The  native  robber  glares  and  hides, 
And  treacherous  death  keeps  watch  alway 

For  him  who  flies  or  him  who  bides. 

In  the  deep  tropic  woods  there  grows 

A  tree  whose  tall  and  silvery  bole 
Above  the  dusky  forest  shows 

As  shining  as  a  saintly  soul 
Among  the  souls  of  sinful  men, 

Lifting  its  milk-white  flowers  to  heaven, 
And  breathing  incense  out,  as  when 

Earth's  almost  sinless  ones  are  shriven. 

The  skulking  robber  drops  his  eyes, 
And  signs  himself  with  holy  cross, 


INTRODUCTORY.  123 

If  far,  between  him  and  the  skies, 
He  sees  its  pearly  blossoms  toss  : 

The  wanderer  halts  to  gaze  upon 
The  lovely  vision  far  and  near, 

And  smiles  and  sighs  to  think  of  one 
He  wishes  for  the  moment  here. 

Nor  Mexic  native  fears  the  fang, 
The  poisoned  vine,  the  venomed  bee, 

If  he  may  soothe  the  baleful  pang 
With  juices  from  his  "holy  tree." 

How  do  we  all  in  life's  wild  ways, 
Which  oft  we  traverse  lost  and  lone, 

Need  that  which  heavenward  draws  the  gaze, 
Some  Palo  Santo  of  our  own! 

Frances  Fuller  Victor. 


THE  FALLEN  BRAVE, 

FROM  cypress  and  from  laurel  boughs 
Are  twined,  in  sorrow  and  in  pride, 
The  leaves  that  deck  the  mouldering  brows 

Of  those  who  for  their  country  died : 
In  sorrow,  that  the  sable  pall 

Enfolds  the  valiant  and  the  brave ; 
In  pride  that  those  who  nobly  fall 
Win  garlands  that  adorn  the  grave. 

The  onset,  the  pursuit,  the  roar 
Of  victory  o'er  the  routed  foe, 


124  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Will  startle  from  their  rest  no  more 

The  fallen  brave  of  Mexico. 
To  God  alone  such  spirits  yield! 

He  took  them  in  their  strength  and  bloom, 
When  gathering,  on  the  tented  field, 

The  garlands  woven  for  the  tomb. 

The  shrouded  flag,  the  drooping  spear, 

The  muffled  drum,  the  solemn  bell, 
The  funeral  train,  the  dirge,  the  bier, 

The  mourners'  sad  and  last  farewell, 
Are  fading  tributes  to  the  worth 

Of  those  whose  deeds  this  homage  claim; 
But  Time,  who  mingles  them  with  earth, 

Keeps  green  the  garlands  of  their  fame. 

George  P.  Morris. 


MEXICO. 

Acapulco. 

THE  LOST  GALLEON. 

IN  sixteen  hundred  and  forty-one, 
The  regular  yearly  galleon, 
Laden  with  odorous  gums  and  spice, 
India  cottons  and  India  rice, 
And  the  richest  silks  of  far  Cathay^ 
Was  due  at  Acapulco  Bay. 

Due  she  was,  and  over-due,  — 
Galleon,  merchandise,  and  crew, 
Creeping  along  through  rain  and  shine, 
Through  the  tropics,  under  the  line. 

The  trains  were  waiting  outside  the  walls, 
The  wives  of  sailors  thronged  the  town, 
The  traders  sat  by  their  empty  stalls, 
And  the  viceroy  himself  came  down; 
The  bells  in  the  tower  were  all  a-trip, 
Te  Deums  were  on  each  father's  lip, 


126  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  limes  were  ripening  in  the  sun 
For  the  sick  of  the  coming  galleon. 

All  in  vain.     Weeks  passed  away, 
And  yet  no  galleon  saw  the  bay: 
India  goods  advanced  in  price  ; 
The  governor  missed  his  favorite  spice ; 
The  senoritas  mourned  for  sandal, 
And  the  famous  cottons  of  Coromandel; 
And  some  for  an  absent  lover  lost, 
And  one  for  a  husband,  —  Donna  Julia, 
Wife  of  the  captain,  tempest-tossed, 
In  circumstances  so  peculiar  : 
Even  the  fathers,  unawares, 
Grumbled  a  little  at  their  prayers; 
And  all  along  the  coast  that  year 
Votive  candles  were  scarce  and  dear. 

Never  a  tear  bedims  the  eye. 

That  time  and  patience  will  not  dry; 

Never  a  lip  is  curved  with  pain 

That  can't  be  kissed  into  smiles  again : 

And  these  same  truths,  as  far  as  I  know, 

Obtained  on  the  coast  of  Mexico 

More  than  two  hundred  years  ago, 

In  sixteen  hundred  and  fifty-one,  — 

Ten  years  after  the  deed  was  done, — • 

And  folks  had  forgotten  the  galleon : 

The  divers  plunged  in  the  Gulf  for  pearls 

White  as  the  teeth  of  the  Indian  girls ; 

The  traders  sat  by  their  full  bazaars ; 


ACAPULCO.  12? 

The  mules  with  many  a  weary  load, 
And  oxen,  dragging  their  creaking  cars, 
Came  and  went  on  the  mountain  road. 

Where  was  the  galleon  all  this  while : 

Wrecked  on  some  lonely  coral  isle  ? 

Burnt  by  the  roving  sea-marauders, 

Or  sailing  north  under  secret  orders? 

Had  she  found  the  ^nian  passage  famed, 

By  lying  Moldonado  claimed, 

And  sailed  through  the  sixty-fifth  degree 

Direct  to  the  North  Atlantic  sea? 

Or  had  she  found  the  "River  of  Kings," 

Of  which  De  Fonte  told  such  strange  things 

In  sixteen  forty?     Never  a  sign, 

East  or  West  or  under  the  line, 

They  saw  of  the  missing  galleon; 

Never  a  sail  or  plank  or  chip, 

They  found  of  the  long-lost  treasure-ship, 

Or  enough  to  build  a  tale  upon. 

But  when  she  was  lost,  and  where  and  how, 

Are  the  facts  we  're  coming  to  just  now. 

Take,  if  you  please,  the  chart  of  that  day 
Published  at  Madrid,  — por  el  Rey  ; 
Look  for  a  spot  in  the  old  South  Sea, 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree 
Longitude,  west  of  Madrid :  there, 
Under  the  equatorial  glare, 
Just  where  the  East  and  West  are  one, 
You  '11  find  the  missing  galleon,  — 


128  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

You  '11  find  the  "San  Gregorio,"  yet 
Riding  the  seas,  with  sails  all  set, 
Fresh  as  upon  the  very  day 
She  sailed  from  Acapulco  Bay. 

How  did  she  get  there  ?     What  strange  spell 

Kept  her  two  hundred  years  so  well, 

Free  from  decay  and  mortal  taint? 

What  but  the  prayers  of  a  patron  saint? 

A  hundred  leagues  from  Manilla  town 

The  "San  Gregorio's"  helm  came  down; 

Hound  she  went  on  her  heel,  and  not 

A  cable's  length  from  a  galliot 

That  rocked  on  the  waters,  just  abreast 

Of  the  galleon's  course,  which  was  west-souwest. 

Then  said  the  galleon's  commandante, 
General  Pedro  Sobriente 
(That  was  his  rank  on  land  and  main, 
A  regular  custom  of  old  Spain), 
"  My  pilot  is  dead  of  scurvy :   may 
I  ask  the  longitude,  time,  and  day  ? " 
The  first  two  given  and  compared ; 
The  third,  —  the  commandante  stared  ! 

"  The  first  of  June  ?     I  make  it  second." 

Said  the  stranger,  "  Then  you  've  wrongly  reckoned ; 

I  make  it  first :  as  you  came  this  way, 

You  should  have  lost  —  d'  ye  see  —  a  day ; 

Lost  a  day,  as  plainly  see, 

On  the  hundred  and  eightieth  degree." 

"Lost  a  day?"     "Yes:  if  not  rude, 


ACAPULCO.  129 

When  did  you  make  east  longitude  ?  " 
"  On  the  ninth  of  May,  —  our  patron's  day." 
"On  the  ninth?  —  you  had  no  ninth  of -May! 
Eighth  and  tenth  was  there;  but  stay"  — 
Too  late;  for  the  galleon  bore  away. 

Lost  was  the  day  they  should  have  kept,  — 
Lost  unheeded  and  lost  unwept; 
Lost  in  a  way  that  made  search  vain, 
Lost  in  the  trackless  and  boundless  main; 
Lost  like  the  day  of  Job's  awful  curse, 
In  his  third  chapter,  third  and  fourth  verse. 
Wrecked  was  their  patron's  only  day: 
What  would  the  holy  fathers  say? 

Said  the  Tray  Antonio  Estavan, 
The  galleon's  chaplain,  —  a  learned  man,  — 
"Nothing  is  lost  that  you  can  regain; 
And  the  way  to  look  for  a  thing  is  plain 
To  go  where  you  lost  it,  back  again. 
Back  with  your  galleon  till  you  see 
The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree. 
Wait  till  the  rolling  year  goes  round, 
And  there  will  the  missing  day  be  found; 
For  you'll  find  —  if  computation's  true  — 
That  sailing  east  will  give  to  you 
Not  only  one  ninth  of  May,  but  two, — 
One  for  the  good  saint's  present  cheer, 
And  one  for  the  day  we  lost  last  year." 

Back  to  the  spot  sailed  the  galleon; 
WThere,  for  a  twelvemonth,  off  and  on 


130  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  hundred  and  eightieth  degree, 

She  rose  and  fell  on  a  tropic  sea ; 

But  lo  !  when  it  came  to  the  ninth  of  May, 

All  of  a  sudden  becalmed  she  lay 

One  degree  from  that  fatal  spot, 

Without  the  power  to  move  a  knot; 

And  of  course  the  moment  she  lost  her  way, 

Gone  was  her  chance  to  save  that  day. 

To  cut  a  lengthening  story  short, 

She  never  saved  it.     Made  the  sport 

Of  evil  spirits  and  baffling  wind, 

She  was  always  before  or  just  behind,  — 

One  day  too  soon,  or  one  day  too  late ; 

And  the  sun,  meanwhile,  would  never  wait. 

She  had  two  eighths,  as  she  idly  lay, 

Two  tenths,  bat  never  a  ninth  of  May. 

And  there  she  rides  through  two  hundred  years 

Of  dreary  penance  and  anxious  fears ; 

Yet  through  the  grace  of  the  saint  she  served 

Captain  and  crew  are  still  preserved. 

By  a  computation  that  still  holds  good, 

Made  by  the  Holy  Brotherhood, 

The  "  San  Gregorio  "  will  cross  that  line 

In  nineteen  hundred  and  thirty-nine, — 

Just  three  hundred  years  to  a  day 

From  the  time  she  lost  the  ninth  of  May. 

And  the  folk  in  Acapulco  town, 

Over  the  waters,  looking  down, 

Will  see  in  the  glow  of  the  setting  sun 


BUENA   VISTA.  131 

The  sails  of  the  missing  galleon, 

And  the  royal  standard  of  Philip  Rey ; 

The  gleaming  mast  and  glistening  spar, 

As  she  nears  the  surf  of  the  outer  bar. 

A  Te  Deum  sung  on  her  crowded  deck, 

An  odor  of  spice  along  the  shore, 

A  crash,  a  cry  from  a  shattered  wreck, — 

And  the  yearly  galleon  sails  no  more 

In  or  out  of  the  olden  bay ; 

For  the  blessed  patron  has  found  his  day. 

Such  is  the  legend.     Hear  this  truth: 
Over  the  trackless  past,  somewhere, 
Lie  the  lost  days  of  our  tropic  youth, 
Only  regained  by  faith  and  prayer, 
Only  recalled  by  prayer  and  plaint. 

Each  lost  day  has  its  patron  saint ! 

Bret  Harte. 


Buena  Vista. 

THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward 
far  away, 

O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  are  they  far  or  come 

they  near  ? 

Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm 
we  hear. 


132  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle 
rolls; 

Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;  God  have  mercy  on 
their  souls  ! " 

Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  —  "  Over  hill  and 
over  plain, 

I  see  but  smoke  of  camion  clouding  through  the  moun 
tain  rain." 

Holy  Mother  !  keep  our  brothers  !    Look,  Ximena,  look 

once  more. 
"  Still  I   see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling   darkly  as 

before, 
Bearing  on,  in  strange   confusion,   friend  and  foeman, 

foot  and  horse, 
Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down  its 

mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !     "  Ah !  the  smoke  has  ' 

rolled  away; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks 

of  gray. 
Hark !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles  !  there  the  troop  of 

Minon  wheels  ; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at 

their  heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity !  how  it  thickens  !  now  retreat  and  now 
advance ! 

Right  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  charg 
ing  lance ! 


BUENA    VISTA.  133 

Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ;  horse  and  foot 

together  fall; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs 

the  Northern  ball" 

Nearer  came  the   storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and 

frightful  on! 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  "who  has  lost,  and 

who  has  won? 
"  Alas  !   alas  !   I  know  not ;    friend  and  foe  together 

fall. 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living :    pray,  my  sisters,  for 

them  all ! 

"  Lo  !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting :  Blessed  Mother, 
save  my  brain ! 

I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps 
of  slain. 

Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding;  now  they  fall, 
and  strive  to  rise ; 

Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  be 
fore  our  eyes ! 

"  O  my  heart's   love  !     O  my  dear  one  !  lay  thy  poor 

head  on  my  knee : 
Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee?     Canst  thou 

hear  me  ?    canst  thou  see  ? 
0  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !     O  my  Bernal,  look 

once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  Mercy !   mercy !   all 

is  o'er ! " 


134  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Dry   thy  tears,   my   poor  Ximena;   lay  thy   dear  one 

down  to  rest; 
Let  liis  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his 

breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses 

said  : 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,   a 

soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow 

his  life  away ; 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol-belt, 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away 
her  head  ; 

With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her 
dead; 

But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  strug 
gling  breath  of  pain, 

And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips 
again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and 
faintly  smiled : 

Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's  ?  did  she  watch  be 
side  her  child  ? 

All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart 
supplied ; 

With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother ! "  mur 
mured  he,  and  died ! 


BUENA   VISTA.  135 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee 

forth, 
From   some   gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping,  lonely, 

in  the  North!" 
Spake  the   mournful  Mexic  woman,    as  she  laid  him 

with  her  dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds 

which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !    "  Like  a  cloud  before 

the  wind 
Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and 

death  behind; 
Ah !  they  plead   in  vain  for  mercy ;   in  the   dust  the 

wounded  strive ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !     0  thou  Christ  of  God, 

forgive  ! " 

Sink,   0   Night,  among  thy  mountains :   let  the   cool, 

gray  shadows  fall ; 
Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over  ^ 

all! 
Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the 

battle  rolled, 
In  its  sheath   the   sabre   rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips 

grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pur 
sued, 

Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and 
faint  and  lacking  food. 


136  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Over  weak   and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care 

they  hung, 
And  the  dying  foeraan  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and 

Northern  tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  0  Father !  is  this  evil  world  of  ours ; 
Upward,  through   its   blood  and  ashes,   spring   afresh 

the  Eden  flowers; 
From  its   smoking  hell  of  battle  Love   and  Pity  send 

their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our 

air! 

John,  Greenleaf  Whittler. 


THE  SOLDIER  OF  BUENA  YISTA, 

TT1  WAS  a  fearful  night  when  our  little  band 

-L    Camped  far  away  in  the  Mexican  land, 
When  the  first  faint  light  of  our  watch-fires  rose, 
In  the  midst  of  twenty  thousand  foes, 
In  the  darkness  of  Buena  Yista. 

Oh,  twice  had  risen  the  morning  sun, 
Since  that  fearful,  hopeless  fight  begun, 
And  twice  he  had  sunk  in  the  blazing  west, 
And  we  still  fought  on,  without  food  or  rest, 
The  fight  of  Buena  Yista. 

Bnt  the  night  crept  on,  and  its  heavy  shade 
Brought  a  pause  in  the  fearful  cannonade, 
And  we  watched,  oh,  a  fearful  watch  we  kept, 


CHOLULA.  137 

JBut  we  hoped  —  still  hoped  —  for  calmly  slept 
The  soldier  of  Buena  Yista. 

We  fought  and  bled  till  our  work  was  done, 
We  have  worn  the  meed  our  valor  won ; 
But  alas,  one  by  one,  our  comrades  fall, 
And  soon  in  vain  shall  our  country  call 
Eor  a  soldier  of  Buena  Vista. 

Henry  Morford. 


Cholula. 


CHOLULA. 

WHERE  spreads  Cholula's  plain,  beneath  the  eye 
Of  Nature's  giants  towering  to  the  sky, 
In  mouldering  pride,  in  solemn  ruin,  stands 
That  lordly  pile,  the  "  Mountain  made  by  hands." 
No  Attic  grace,  no  Asian  pomp,  are  here  ; 
'Tis  simply  grand,  and  savagely  severe: 
Pacing  along  its  base,  or  climbing  slow 
Its  terraced  sides,  to  scan  the  scene  below, 
We  feel  thatv  Babel's  tower  could  scarce  surpass, 
la  rude  wild  majesty,  this  wondrous  mass; 
That  far  Chaldaea's  sons,  or  Egypt's  kings, 
Sent  their  bold  genius  here  on  spirit  wings ; 
For  strange,  between  each  nation,  seems  the  tie 
Of  kindred  creeds,  of  arts,  and  modes  gone  by ; 
Each  worshipped  day's  bright  god,  and  watched  afar 


138  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Prom  lofty  pyramids  the  midnight  star; 

Each  with  ambition  burned  vast  tombs  to  raise, 

Whose  secret  vaults  should  stand  for  endless  days; 

Yes,  deep  within  this  mount  the  Toltec  laid 

The  bones  of  monarchs,  now  to  dust  decayed: 

Primeval  race !    their  story  who  shall  show  ? 

They  built,  they  reigned,  they  died  —  is  all  we  know. 

Thrice  holy  temple  !    immemorial  tomb ! 
Linked  with  strange  fables,  and  with  tales  of  gloom; 
High  on  its  summit  stood  the  sacred  cell, 
Where,  screened  from  sight,  the  god  was  wont  to  dwell : 
Here  the  stoled  priest  invoked  the  powers  of  air, 
His  offering  burned,  and  breathed  a  nation's  prayer : 
Here,  while  a  paler  beam  each  planet  shed, 
Mid  shouts  and  music,  human  victims  bled. 
The  sacred  fire  —  that  mystic  symbol  brought 
Perchance  from  Persia's  hills,  by  magi  taught  — 
Here  blazed  forever,  save  that  fearful  night, 
Each  rolling  age,  when  priesthood  quenched  its  light, 
And  trembling  thousands,  with  the  vanished  ray, 
Deemed  life  would  fail,  and  earth  would  pass  away. 

Man,  ages,  creeds,  have  melted  from  those  plains; 
Now  o'er  the  giant  structure  quiet  reigns. 
Spring  decks  its  mouldering  sides  with  many  a  flower, 
That  courts  the  bee  at  morning's  dewy  hour. 
Where  frowned  the  Toltec's  god,  the  Virgin  now 
Sheds  her  meek  smile,  and  Christian  votaries  bow; 
While,  sadly  sweet,  the  circling  yew-trees  wave, 
And  crosses  deck  the  ancient  Pagan's  grave. 


MEXICO,    THE    CITY.  139 

"  Ave  Maria  !  "  evening's  balmy  breeze 

Wafts  the  soft  prayer,  like  music,  through  the  trees; 

Mid  golden  clouds,  his  curtained  couch  of  sleep, 

The  sun  o'erhangs  the  vast  Pacific  deep, 

Gilds  the  far  isles  that  tropic  glories  bear, 

And  charms  to  rest  each  storm-fiend  brooding  there. 

"  Ave  Maria !  "  mountain,  plain,  and  shore 

Hear  the  loud  gong,  the  crowd's  mad  shout  no  more ; 

Soft  as  an  angel's  sigh,  the  bell's  low  sound 

Steals  from  yon  tower,  and  floats  in  whispers  round. 

Day  smiles  in  death,  and  throws  a  crimson  streak, 

Like  Beauty's  blush,  along  each  snowy  peak; 

E'en  Orizaba's  fires  ascend  on  high, 

The  lurid  flames  turned  roses  in  the  sky. 

Mild  are  the  rites,  and  gentle  is  the  creed, 

Thus  doomed  red  Moloch's  worship  to  succeed; 

Eve's  purple  charm,  the  music  of  the  hour, 

Pour  on  the  soul  their  soft  dissolving  power, 

Melt  the  full  heart,  and  waft  the  thoughts  above, 

On  wings  of  warm  devotion,  hope,  and  love. 

Nicholas  Michel  I. 


Mexico,  the  City. 

MEXICO. 

FROM  early  morning  till  the  midnoon  hour 
We  travelled  in  the  mountains;  then  a  plain 
Opened  below,  and  rose  upon  the  sight, 
Like  boundless  ocean  from  a  hill-top  s'een. 


140  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  beautiful  and  populous  plain  it  was; 

Pair  woods  were  there,  and  fertilizing  streams, 

And  pastures  spreading  wide,  and  villages 

In  fruitful  groves  embowered,  and  stately  towns, 

And  many  a  single  dwelling  specking  it, 

As  though  for  many  a  year  the  land  had  been 

The  land  of  peace.     Below  us,  where  the  base 

Of  the  great  mountain  to  the  level  sloped, 

A  broad  blue  lake  extended  far  and  wide 

Its  waters,  dark  beneath  the  light  of  noon. 

There  Aztlan  stood  upon  the  farther  shore : 

Amid  the  shade  of  trees  its  dwellings  rose, 

Their  level  roofs  with  turrets  set  around, 

And  battlements  all  burnished  white,  which  shone 

Like  silver  in  the  sunshine.     I  beheld 

The  imperial  city,  her  far-circling  walls, 

Her  garden  groves  and  stately  palaces, 

Her  temple's  mountain-size,  her  thousand  roofs; 

And  when  I  saw  her  might  and  majesty 

My  mind  misgave  me  then. 

We  reached  the  shore  : 
A  floating  islet  waited  for  me  there, 
The  beautiful  work  of  man.     I  set  my  feet 
Upon  green-growing  herbs  and  flowers,  and  sate 
Embowered  in  odorous  shrubs  :   four  long  light  boats 
Yoked  to  the  garden,  with  accordant  song, 
And  dip  and  dash  of  oar  in  harmony, 
Bore  me  across  the  kke. 

Robert  Southey. 


MICOATi  141 


MEXICO. 

THOU  art  beautiful, 

Queen  of  the  Valley  !  thou  art  beautiful ! 
Thy  walls,  like  silver,  sparkle  to  the  sun ; 
Melodious  wave  thy  groves,  thy  garden-sweets 
Enrich  the  pleasant  air,  upon  the  lake 
Lie  the  long  shadows  of  thy  towers,  and  high 
In  heaven  thy  temple-pyramids  arise, 
Upon  whose  summit  now,  far  visible 
Against  the  clear  blue  sky,  the  Cross  of  Christ 
Proclaims  unto  the  nations  round  the  news 
Of  thy  redemption.     Thou  art  beautiful, 
Aztlan !    O  City  of  the  Cymbric  Prince ! 
Long  mayest  thou  nourish  in  thy  beauty,  long 
Prosper  beneath  the  righteous  conqueror, 
Who  conquers  to  redeem  !   Long  years  of  peace 
And  happiness  await  thy  Lord  and  thee, 
Queen  of  the  Valley  ! 

Robert  Southey. 


Micoat. 

MICOAT. 

BUT  long  ere  these  fair  realms  to  Cortes  bowed, 
Or  reigned  the  Aztec,  rose  the  structures  proud 
Which,  more  than  tomb  or  temple,  form  a  chain 
That  links  the  land  to  climes  beyond  the  main. 


142  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Ah !  many  a  secret  of  old  days  lies  hid 

Beneath  the  ruined  moss-clad  pyramid  ! 

On  Micoat's  plain  two  stately  piles  are  seen, 

Sacred  to  day's  grand  orb  and  night's  fair  queen, 

While  north  and  south  less  towering  structures  sweep, 

Where  chiefs,  perchance,  and  lowlier  subjects  sleep  : 

So  on  far  Nubia's  waste,  on  Gizeh's  sand, 

Small  cone-shaped  tombs  around  the  mightier  stand. 

In  Taj in's  woods  where  wanderers  rare  intrude, 

A  hunter  train  the  wild  red  deer  pursued ; 

With  hound,  and  echoing  tube,  they  onward  press, 

But  start  to  see  a  form  of  loveliness ; 

Above  the  forest,  flame-like,  springs  in  air 

A  graceful  tower,  like  some  bright  vision  there; 

From  rich-carved  base  to  apex-stone  they  trace 

Egypt's  vast  strength  and  Grsecia's  matchless  grace ; 

Huge  blocks,  that  well  might  task  man's  power  and  skill 

To  move  their  bulk,  on  blocks  ascending  still! 

The  pensile  flower  from  every  crevice  peeps, 

Up  its  fair  sides  the  pale  gray  lichen  creeps. 

Some  faun  or  wood-nymph,  hovering  round  the  spot, 

Hath  surely  watched  this  pile,  by  man  forgot, 

And,  through  revolving  ages,  charmed  away 

The  scythe  of  Time,  the  spectre  of  Decay. 

Nicholas  Michell. 


MONTEREY.  143 

Monterey. 

MONTEREY, 

YITE  were  not  many, —we  who  stood 

'  i    Before  the  iron  sleet  that  day; 
Yet  many  a  gallant  spirit  would 
Give  half  his  years  if  but  he  could 
Have  been  with  us  at  Monterey. 

Now  here,  now  there,  the  shot  it  hailed 

In  deadly  drifts  of  fiery  spray, 
Yet  not  a  single  soldier  quailed 
When  wounded  comrades  round  them  wailed 

Their  dying  shout  at  Monterey. 

And  on,  still  on  our  column  kept, 

Through  walls  of  flame,  its  withering  way; 
Where  fell  the  dead,  the  living  stept, 
Still-  charging  on  the  guns  which  swept 
The  slippery  streets  of  Monterey. 

The  foe  himself  recoiled  aghast, 

When,  striking  where  he  strongest  lay, 
We  swooped  his  flanking  batteries  past, 
And,  braving  full  their  murderous  blast, 
Stormed  home  the  towers  of  Monterey. 

Our  banners  on  those  turrets  wave, 

And  there  our  evening  bugles  play ; 
Where  orange -boughs  above  their  grave 


144  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Keep  green  the  memory  of  the  brave 
Who  fought  and  fell  at  Monterey. 

We  are  not  many,  —  we  who  pressed 
Beside  the  brave  who  fell  that  day; 
But  who  of  us  has  not  confessed 
He'd  rather  share  their  warrior  rest 
Than  not  have  been  at  Monterey? 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffn 


VICTOR  GALBRAITH, 

UNDER  the  walls  of  Monterey 
At  daybreak  the  bugles  began  to  play, 

Victor  Galbraith! 

In  the  mist  of  the  morning  damp  and  gray, 
These  were  the  words  they  seemed  to  say : 
"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 
Victor  Galbraith !  " 

Forth  he  came,  with  a  martial  tread; 
Eirm  was  his  step,  erect  his  head ; 

Victor  Galbraith, 

He  who  so  well  the  bugle  played, 
Could  not  mistake  the  words  it  said : 

"  Come  forth  to  thy  death, 

Victor  Galbraith!" 

He  looked  at  the  earth,  he  looked  at  the  sky, 
He  looked  at  the  files  of  musketry, 
Victor  Galbraith! 


MONTEREY.  145 

And  lie  said,  with  a  steady  voice  and  eye, 
"  Take  good  aim ;  I  am  ready  to  die !  " 

Thus  challenges  death 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Twelve  fiery  tongues  flashed  straight  and  red, 
Six  leaden  balls  on  their  errand  sped; 

Victor  Galbraith 

Palls  to  the  ground,  but  he  is  not  dead ; 
His  name  was  not  stamped  on  those  balls  of  lead, 

And  they  only  scath 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Three  balls  are  in  his  breast  and  brain, 
But  he  rises  out  of  the  dust  again, 

Victor  Galbraith! 

The  water  he  drinks  has  a  bloody  stain ; 
"  Oh,  kill  me,  and  put  me  out  of  my  pain ! " 

In  his  agony  prayeth 

Victor  Galbraith. 

Forth  dart  once  more  those  tongues  of  flame, 
And  the  bugler  has  died  a  death  of  shame, 

Victor  Galbraith  ! 

His  soul  has  gone  back  to  whence  it  came, 
And  no  one  answers  to  the  name, 

When  the  Sergeant  saith, 

"  Victor  Galbraith  !  " 

Under  the  walls  of  Monterey 
By  night  a  bugle  is  heard  to  play, 
Victor  Galbraith! 


146  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Through  the  mist  of  the  valley  damp  and  gray 
The  sentinels  hear  the  sound,  and  say, 

"That  is  the  wraith 

Of  Victor  Galbraith  !  " 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow, 


Orizaba. 

ORIZABA. 

I. 

I  SAW  thee,  Orizaba,  in  my  youth, 
Morn  after  morn, 

When  shot  and  shell  bore  death,  and  future  ruth 
To  many  a  home  forlorn. 

And,  after  War's  revolting  face 

Eaded  before  el  Norte  blast, 
Ofttimes  I  hied  me  to  thy  mountain-base, 

And,  seated  near  thy  swarthy  village,  framed 
Some  verses  of  a  legend,  —  which  I  lost, 

Drifting  from  place  to  place; 
But  now,  from  their  dark  lumber-nook  reclaimed, 
Upon  the  world's  wide  ocean  they  are  cast. 

ii. 

A  slave  in  ancient  Mexico 

Tended  a  princess  through  the  woods. 
Rain  suddenly  rushed  down  in  floods, 
Till  wind  and  darkness  ruled  below. 
Into  some  wild-beasts'  cave  the  slave  conveyed 


"  The  palpitating  silver  snpw 
Glitters,  then  seems  to  blush  and  burn.' 


See  page  147. 


ORIZABA.  147 

His  fainting  charge,  and  soothed  her  wild  affright ; 
Tore  down  great  boughs  to  screen  the  royal  maid, 

And  at  her  feet  sat  watchful  through  the  night. 
At  dawn  the  tempest  lulled,  and  cleared  away: 

They  issued  forth,  and  saw  the  first  red  ray 
On  Orizaba's  snows,  above  the  cloud-racks  gray. 

in. 
They  mark  the  crimsoning  sunrise  tinge 

The  clouds  above  that  mountain  peak,  — 

Like  strong  blood  flushing  passion's  cheek,- — 
Then  take,  below,  a  yeasty  fringe, 

Which  opens  out  in  many  a  streak 
Of  coming  light  and  radiant  smiles,  — 
An  ocean-sky,  with  lovely  isles, 

Where  silent  billows  flow,  and  break. 

IV. 

They  watch  the  peak's  clear  outline  glow  ! 

The  clouds  with  hope's  new  birthday  yearn ! 
The  palpitating  silver  snow 

Glitters,  then  seems  to  blush  and  burn, 
And  snatch  a  robe  of  gleaming  gold, 

Its  swelling  bosom  to  enfold. 
That  virgin  gold  took  fire  before  the  rise 

Of  Orizaba's  sun,  —  whose  wheel-spokes  hurled 
Beams  that  made  heaven  a  furnace  of  all  dyes, 

Till  life's  sustainer  burst  upon  the  world ! 
The  slave  and  princess  towards  each  other  pressed,  — • 
Each  face  was  glorified,  —  each  soul  confessed ! 
"  I  love  thee  !  "  cried  the  slave,  —  and  from  that  hour 
was  blest. 

Richard  Ilengist  Home. 


148  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Palenque. 

PALENQUE. 

UNLIKE  Copan,  yet  buried,  too,  mid  trees, 
Upspringing  there  for  sumless  centuries, 
Behold  a  royal  city  !  vast  and  lone, 
Lost  to  each  race,  —  to  all  the  world  unknown ; 
Like  famed  Pompeii,  'neath  her  lava  bed, 
Till  chance  unveiled  the  "  City  of  the  Dead." 
Palenque  !  —  dark  seat  of  kings  !  —  as  o'er  the  plain, 
Clothed  with  thick  copse,  the  traveller  toils  with  pain, 
Climbs  the  rude  mound  the  shadowy  scene  to  trace, 
He  views  in  mute  surprise  thy  desert  grace. 
At  every  step  some  palace  meets  his  eye, 
Some  figure  frowns,  some  temple  courts  the  sky. 
It  seems  as  if  that  hour  the  verdurous  earth, 
By  genii  struck,  had  given  these  fabrics  birth, 
Save  that  old  Time  hath  flung  his  darkening  pall 
On  each  tree-shaded  tower  and  pictured  wall. 

The  royal  palace  decks  its  stately  mound, 
Girt  by  wild  shrubs,  by  waving  thistles  crowned; 
But  strength  still  breathes  throughout  the  lordly  pile, 
And  lingering  beauty  sheds  a  mournful  smile. 
We  walk  the  rooms  where  kings  and  princes  met, 
Erown  on  the  walls  their  sculptured  portraits  yet; 
Strange  their  costume,  —  ye  see  no  native  face, 
Lip,  brow,  and  hue  bespeak  an  Ethiop  race. 
The  square  stone  portals,  smooth  and  glittering  floors, 


PALENQUE.  149 

The  spacious  courts,  and  sounding  corridors, 
The  picture-writing  earliest  races  learn, 
The  giant  figures,  mournful,  calm,  and  stern, — 
All  point  to  climes  beyond  the  Eastern  sea, 
Egypt's  old  shores,  or,  far  Cathay  !  to  thee : 
How  the  bold  ancients  crossed  the  watery  way, 
By  star  or  needle,  't  is  not  ours  to  say  ; 
Enough  we  meet  their  gorgeous  buildings  here, 
Their  picture-art,   and  creeds  of  gloom  and  fear. 

Lo  !  o'er  the  dense  black  mass  of  giant  trees 
The  moon  upsprings,  and  sighs  the  midnight  breeze ; 
Now  looks  Palenque  —  on  ruin,  ruin  piled  — 
August,  yet  spectral,  —  beautiful,  yet  wild  : 
The  tower,  just  peering  through  the  foliage  green, 
Bathed  in  the  beams,  a  silvery  point  is  seen; 
The  moss-grown  palace,  temple  dark  arid  still, 
The  shattered  pillar  thrown  across  the  rill; 
The  firefly,  darting  through  the  forest  shade, 
The  owl's  gray  eyes  that  glare  within  the  glade; 
The  spells  of  silence  on  all  earth  that  lie, 
Naught  but  the  cold  moon  moving  in  the  sky, — 
No  sight  like  this  may  other  ruins  show ; 
They  wake  to  wonder,  while  they  melt  to  woe, 
And  seem    to    breathe    one    voice,  —  that   voice   the 

knell 
Of  races  gone,  whose  history  none  may  tell. 

Nicholas  Mich  el  I. 


150  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Popocatepetl,   the  Mountain. 

POPOCATEPETL. 

PALE  peak,  afar 
Gilds  thy  white  pinnacle  a  single  star, 
While  sharply  on  the  deep  blue  sky  thy  snows 
In  deathlike  calm  repose. 

The  nightingale 

Through  Mira  Flores  bowers  repeats  her  tale, 
And  every  rose  its  perfumed  censer  swings 
With  vesper  offerings. 

But  not  for  thee, 

Diademed  king,  this  love-born  minstrelsy, 
Nor  yet  the  tropic  gales  that  gently  blow 
Through  these  blessed  vales  below. 
*  *  * 

Deep  in  thy  heart 

Bum  on  vast  fires,  struggling  to  rend  apart 
Their  prison  walls,  and  then  in  wrath  be  hurled 
Blazing  upon  the  world. 

In  vain  conspire 

Against  thy  majesty  tempests  and  fire; 
The  elemental  wars  of  madness  born, 
Serene,  thou  laugh' st  to  scorn. 

Calm  art  thou  now 
As  when  the  Aztec,  on  thine  awful  brow, 


POPOCATEPETL,    THE    MOUNTAIN.  151 

Gazed  on  some  eve  like  this  from  Chalco's  shore, 
Where  lives  his  name  no  more. 

And  thou  hast  seen 

Glitter  in  dark  defiles  the  ominous  sheen 
Of  lances,  and  hast  heard  the  battle-cry 
Of  Castile's  chivalry. 

And  yet  again 

Hast  seen  strange  banners  steering  o'er  the  main, 
When  from  his  eyrie  soared  to  conquest  forth 
The  eagle  of  the  North. 

Yet  at  thy  feet, 

While  rolling  on,  the  tides  of  empire  beat, 
Thou  art,  O  mountain,  on  thy  world-piled  throne, 
Of  all,  unchanged  alone. 

Type  of  a  power 

Supreme,  thy  solemn  silence  at  this  hour 
Speaks  to  the  nations  of  the  Almighty  Word 
Which  at  thy  birth  was  stirred. 

Prophet  sublime  ! 

Wide  on  the  morning's  wings  will  float  the  chime 
Of  martial  horns  ;  yet  mid  the  din  thy  spell 

Shall  sway  me  still,  —  farewell. 

William  H.  Lyile. 


152  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Queretaro. 

MAXIMILIAN. 

NOT  with  a  craven  spirit  he 
Submitted  to  the  harsh  decree 
That  bade  him  die  before  his  time, 
Cut  off  ia  manhood's  golden  prime,  — 
Poor  Maximilian ! 

And  some  who  marked  his  noble  mien, 
His  dauntless  heart,  his  soul  serene, 
Have  deemed  they  saw  a  martyr  die, 
And  chorused  forth  the  solemn  cry, 

"  Great  Maximilian  ! " 

Alas  !  Ambition  was  his  sin ; 
He  staked  his  life  a  throne  to  win; 
Counted  amiss  the  fearful  cost 
(As  chiefs  have  done  before),  —  and  lost ! 
Rash  Maximilian ! 

'T  is  not  the  victim's  tragic  fate, 
Nor  calm  endurance,  makes  him  great; 
Mere  lust  of  empire  and  renown 
Can  never  claim  the  martyr's  crown, 

Brave  Maximilian ! 

Alas !  it  fell,  that,  in  thy  aim 

To  win  a  sovereign's  power  and  fame, 


QUERETARO.  153 

Thy  better  nature  lost  its  force, 
And  royal  crimes  disgraced  thy  course, 
King  Maximilian  1 

Alas !  what  ground  for  mercy's  plea 
In  his  behalf,  whose  fell  decree 
Gave  soldiers   unto  felons'  graves, 
And  freemen  to  the  doom  of  slaves,  — 

Tierce  Maximilian? 

I  loathe  the  rude,  barbaric  wrath 
That  slew  tliee  in  thy  venturous  path; 
But  "they  who  take,"  thus  saith  the  Lord, 
"  Shall  also  perish  by  the  sword," 

Doomed  Maximilian ! 

But,  when  I  think  upon  the  scene, — 
Thy  fearful  fate,  thy  wretched  queen, — 
And  mark  how  bravely  thou  didst  die, 
I  breathe  again  the  pitying  sigh, 

"  Poor  Maximilian  !  " 

John  Godfrey  Saxe. 


MAXIMILIAN  AT  QUERETAEO. 

THE  scion  of  immemorial  lines, 
August  with  histories  hoary, 
Whose  grand,  imperial  heirship  shines 

With  the  starriest  names  of  story,  — 
Stands  doomed  to  die  :  —  and  the  grenadiers 
In  serried  and  silent  column, 


154  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Their  pitiless  eyes  half  hazed  with  tears, 
Are  waiting  the  signal  solemn. 

The  brave  young  Emperor  lifts  his  brow, — 

It  never  has  shown  so  regal ; 
Yet  it  is  not  the  pride  of  the  Hapsburg  now, 

Nor  the  glance  of  the  clefted  eagle. 
No  blazing  coronet  binds  his  head, 

No  ermined  purple  is  round  him; 
But  his  manhood's  majesty  instead 

With  royaller  rank  has  crowned  him. 

An  instant's  space  he  is  caught  away 

To  Schonbrunn's  peaceful  bowers ; 
There  's  a  lightning-dazzle  of  boyhood's  day; 

Vienna's  glittering  towers 
Flash  back  with  a  mocking,  blinding  glare; 

To  barter  such  princely  splendor, 
For  wrecked  ambition  and  stark  despair, 

Betrayal  and  base  surrender  ! 

Wild,  infinite,  taunting  memories  thrill 

His  soul  to  its  molten  centre; 
Remorses  that  madden  him  clamor  still, 

But  lie  will  not  let  them  enter. 
The  grovelling  traffic  of  time  all  done, 

He  would  have  the  temple  lonely, 
Its  sanctuaries  emptied  one  by  one, 

That  God  may  fill  it  only. 

But  under  the  Austrian  skies  afar, 
Aglow  with  a  light  elysian, 


mo  GRANDE  (RIO  BRAVO)  DEL  NORTE.  155 

The  mullioned  windows  of  Miramar 

Loom  out  on  his  tortured  vision : 
He  looks  on  its  gray  abeles  again ; 

He  is  threading  its  pleached  alleys; 
He  is  guiding  his  darling's  slackened  rein, 

As  they  scour  the  dimpled  valleys. 

He  can  gaze  his  last  on  the  earth  and  sky,  — 

Step  forth  to  his  doom,  nor  shiver,  — 
Eternity  front  his  steadfast  eye, 

And  never  a  muscle  quiver: 
But  love's  heart-rackings,  despairs,  and  tears 

Wrench  the  fixt  lips  asunder; 
"My  poor  Carlotta!" —  Now,  grenadiers, 

Your  volley  may  belch  its  thunder! 

Margaret  Junkin  Preston. 


Bio  Grande  (Rio  Bravo]  del  Norte. 

RIO  GRANDE  DEL  NORTE. 

AT  length  we  came 

Where  the  great  river,  amid  shoals  and  banks 
And  islands,  growth  of  its  own  gathering  spoils, 
Through  many  a  branching  channel,  wide  and  full, 
Hushed  to  the  main.     The  gale  was  strong;  and  safe, 
Amid  the  uproar  of  conflicting  tides, 
Our  gallant  vessels  rode.     A  stream  as  broad 
And  turbid,  when  it  leaves  the  Land  of  Hills, 


156  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Old  Severn  rolls ;  but  banks  so  fair  as  these 
Old  Severn  views  not  in  Ms  Land  of  Hills, 
Nor  even  where  his  turbid  waters  swell 
And  sully  the  salt  sea. 

So  we  sailed  on 

By  shores  now  covered  with  impervious  woods, 
Now  stretching  wide  and  low,  a  reedy  waste, 
And  now  through  vales  where  earth  profusely  poured 
Her  treasures,  gathered  from  the  first  of  days. 
Sometimes  a  savage  tribe  would  welcome  us, 
By  wonder  from  their  lethargy  of  life 
Awakened ;   then  again  we  voyaged  on 
Through  tracts  all  desolate,  for  days  and  days, 
League  after  league,  one  green  and  fertile  mead, 
That  fed  a  thousand  herds. 

A  different  scene 

Rose  on  our  view,  of  mount  on  mountain  piled, 
Which  when  I  see  again  in  memory, 
Star-gazing  Idris's  stupendous  seat 
Seems  dwarfed,  and  Snowdon  with  its  eagle  haunts 
Shrinks,  and  is  dwindled  like  a  Saxon  hill. 

Robert  Southey. 


R 


RIO  BRAVO. 

TO  Bravo!    Rio  Bravo! 

Saw  men  ever  such  a  sight, 


Since  the  field  of  Roncesvalles 
Sealed  the  fate  of  many  a  knight? 

Dark  is  Palo  Alto's  story, 
Sad  Resaca  Palma's  rout; 


mo  GRANDE  (RIO  BRAVO)  DEL  NORTE.   157 

On  those  fatal  fields  so  gory 
Many  a  gallant  life  went  out. 

There  our  best  and  bravest  lances. 
Shivered  'gainst  the  Northern  steel, 

Left  the  valiant  hearts  that  couched  them 
'Neath  the  Northern  charger's  heel. 

Rio  Bravo  !   Rio  Bravo  ! 

Minstrel  ne'er  knew  such  a  fight, 
Since  the  field  of  Roncesvalles 

Sealed  the  fate  of  many  a  knight. 

Rio  Bravo,  fatal  river! 

Saw  ye  not,  while  red  with  gore, 
Torrejon  all  headless  quiver, 

A  ghastly  trunk  upon  thy  shore  ? 

Heard  you  not  the  wounded  coursers, 
Shrieking  on  your  trampled  banks, 

As  the  Northern  winged  artillery 
Thundered  on  our  shattered  ranks  ? 

There  Arista,  best  and  bravest, 
There  Raguena,  tried  and  true, 

On  the  fatal  field  thou  lavest, 
Nobly  did  all  men  could  do. 

Vainly  there  those  heroes  rally, 

Castile  on  Montezuma's  shore. 
"  Rio  Bravo  "  —  "  Roncesvalles," 

Ye  are  names  blent  evermore. 


158  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Weepest  thou,  lorn  lady  Inez, 

For  thy  lover  mid  the  slain? 
Brave  La  Vega's  trenchant  falchion 

Cleft  his  slayer  to  the  brain. 

Brave  La  Vega,  who,  all  lonely, 

By  a  host  of  foes  beset, 
Yielded  up  his  sabre  only, 

When  his  equal  there  he  met. 

Other  champions  not  less  noted 
Sleep  beneath  that  sullen  wave ; 

Rio  Bravo !  thou  hast  floated 
An  army  to  an  ocean  grave. 

On  they  came,  those  Northern  horsemen, 
On  like  eagles  toward  the  sun; 

Followed  then  the  Northern  bayonet, 
And  the  field  was  lost  and  won. 

Oh  for  Orlando's  horn  to  rally 
His  Paladins  on  that  sad  shore ! 

"  Rio  Bravo  "  —  "  Roncesvalles," 
Ye  are  names  blent  evermore. 

Charles  Fenno  Hoffman. 


TULOOM.  159 


Tuloom,    Yucatan. 

TULOOM. 

"  THE  figure  of  the  human  hand  is  used  hy  the  North  American  In 
dians  to  denote  supplication  to  the  Deity  or  Great  Spirit ;  and  it  stands 
in  the  system  of  picture-writing  as  the  symbol  for  strength,  power,  or 
mastery,  thus  derived."  —  SCHOOLCRAFT. 

ON  the  coast  of  Yucatan, 
As  untenanted  of  man, 
As  a  castle  under  ban 

By  a  doom 

For  the  deeds  of  bloody  hours,  — 
Overgrown  with  tropic  bowers, 
Stand  the  teocallis  towers 
Of  Tuloom. 

One  of  these  is  fair  to  sight, 
Where  it  pinnacles  a  height; 
And  the  breakers  blossom  white, 

As  they  boom 

And  split  beneath  the  walls, 
And  an  ocean  murmur  falls 
Through  the  melancholy  halls 

Of  Tuloom. 

On  the  summit,  as  you  stand, 
All  the  ocean  and  the  land 
Stretch  away  on  either  hand, 
But  the  plume 


160  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Of  the  palm  is  overhead, 
A.nd  the  grass,  beneath  your  tread, 
Is  the  monumental  bed 
Of  Tuloom. 

All  the  grandeur  of  the  woods, 
And  the  greatness  of  the  floods, 
And  the  sky  that  overbroods, 

Dress  a  tomb, 

Where  the  stucco  drops  away, 
And  the  bat  avoids  the  day, 
In  the  chambers  of  decay 

In  Tuloom. 

They  are  battlements  of  death : 
When  the  breezes  hold  their  breath, 
Down  a  hundred  feet  beneath, 

In  the  flume 

Of  the  sea,  as  still  as  glass, 
You  can  see  the  fishes  pass 
By  the  promontory  mass 

Of  Tuloom. 

Towards  the  forest  is  displayed, 
On  the  terrace,  a  fafade 
With  devices  overlaid; 

And  the  bloom 
Of  the  vine  of  sculpture,  led 
O'er  the  soffit  overhead, 
Was  a  fancy  of  the  dead 

Of  Tuloom. 


TULOOM.  161 

Here  are  corridors,  and  there, 

From  the  terrace,  goes  a  stair; 

And  the  way  is  broad  and  fail- 
To  the  room 

Where  the  inner  altar  stands; 

And  the  mortar's  tempered  sands 

Bear  the  print  of  human  hands, 
In  Tuloom. 

O'er  the  sunny  ocean  swell, 
The  candas  running  well 
Towards  the  isle  of  Cozumel 

Cleave  the  spume ; 
On  they  run,  and  never  halt 
Where  the  shimmer,  from  the  salt, 
Makes  a  twinkle  in  the  vault 

Of  Tuloom. 

When  the  night  is  wild  and  dark, 
And  a  roar  is  in  the  park, 
And  the  lightning,  to  its  mark, 

Cuts  the  gloom,  — 
All  the  region,  on  the  sight, 
Rushes  upward  from  the  night, 
In  a  thunder-crash  of  light 

O'er  Tuloom. 

Oh  !   could  such  a  flash  recall 
All  the  flam  ens  to  their  hall, 
All  the  idols  on  the  wall, 
In  the  fume 


162  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Of  tlie  Indian  sacrifice,— 
All  the  lifted  hands  and  eyes, 
All  the  laughters  and  the  cries 
Of  Tuloom,  - 

All  the  kings  in  feathered  pride, 
All  the  people,  like  a  tide, 
And  the  voices  of  the  bride 

And  the  groom  !  — 
But,  alas !   the  prickly  pear, 
And  the  owlets  of  the  air, 
And  the  lizards,  make  a  lair 

Of  Tuloom. 

We  are  tenants  on  the  strand 
Of  the  same  mysterious  land. 
Must  the  shores  that  we  command 

Reassume 

Their  primeval  forest  hum, 
And  the  future  pilgrim  come 
Unto  monuments  as  dumb 

As  Tuloom? 

'Tis  a  secret  of  the  clime, 
And  a  mystery  sublime, 
Too  obscure,  in  coming  time, 

To  presume; 

But  the  snake  amid  the  grass 
Hisses  at  us  as  we  pass, 
And  we  sigh,  alas !  alas  ! 

In  Tuloom. 
'<  E.  W.  Ellsworth. 


UXMAL.  163 

Uxmal,    Yucatan. 

CONTEMPLATION  ON  THE  UXMAL  RUINS. 

A  PPROACH  and  pause,  —  there  is  a  feeling  here 
A.  That  stifles  words  and  half  provokes  a  tear ; 
That  comes  abroad  with  wonder  overcast, 
And  coldly  points  to  a  mysterious  past; 
Like  to  some  jewels  rare  whose  each  bright  face 
Doth  mock  the  poor  dead  fingers  they  encase, 
Or  dungeon's  gloom  that  here  and  there  hath  won 
A  stream  of  light  from  some  far-distant  sun,  — 
So  these  strewn  fragments  pour  their  pregnant  rays, 
And  speak  of  distant  worlds  and  mightier  days, 
Of  vast  conditions  with  their  human  seas, 
Of  golden  cities  and  voluptuous  ease, 
When  was  the  pile  that  now  such  sadness  wings 
The  awe  of  peoples  and  the  pride  of  kings. 

And  such  the  fall  that  even  nations  know, 
The  gilt  of  thrones  at  best  a  fleeting  show; 
Thus  Life  and  Death  by  Time  are  borne  along, 
Reactions  each  of  Virtue  and  of  Wrong; 
Pause  then  and  weep, —  the  place  is  all  a  grave, 
The  sepulchre  of  sovereign  and  of  slave; 
Here  pride  and  state  resolve  to  humble  dust, 
The  toys  and  tools  of  luxury  and  lust, 
And  power  that  erst  could  dazzle  and  dethrone 
Resigns  its  sceptre  to  a  crumbling  stone. 


164  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Is  this  the  finis  then  of  human  might, 
And  this  the  fall  from  man's  remotest  height, 
Proud  man  who  loves  his  filmy  waifs  to  flaunt, 
Replete  with  his  own  littleness  and  want  ? 
Approach,  vain  god,  and  scan  this  empty  scroll ! 
And  earthiness  behold  thy  earthy  goal, 
The  consummation  of  a  common  lot, 
Alike  dismembered  —  and  alike  forgot. 

Ah,  this  is  not  the  all  of  human  strife, 
3T  is  but  a  page  and  not  the  book  of  life ! 
O  God  of  Law !   we  bless  thee  for  the  text 
That  makes  tins  world  a  preface  to  the  next ! 
A  pilgrimage  of  one  short  day  and  night, 
An  infant  school,  a  fledgling's  trial  flight, 
Where  Sense  can  catch  a  taste  of  Heaven's  sea, 
And  Mind  a  glimmer  of  the  vast  to  be, 
Yet  store  each  deed  and  thought  from  very  birth 
In  the  great  garner  of  immortal  worth. 

V.  Voldo. 


UXMAL, 

THE  seas  are  passed  Columbus  ploughed  of  yore, 
A  course  he  deemed  no  pilot  traced  before; 
And  gales  blow  fragrance  from  those  Indian  Isles, 
Where  luxury  dwells,  and  soft  allurement  smiles; 
Yet,  spite  of  fruits  that  bloom,  and  flowers  that  wave, 
There  fell  Disease  in  mockery  digs  her  grave. 
Across  the  gulf  tall  vessels  steer  their  way, 
Or  court  the  breezes  down  Honduras'  bay; 
Like  clouds  of  snow,  the  restless  feathered  flocks 


tJXMAL.  165 

Skim  the  blue  surge,  or  settle  on  the  rocks. 
The  white  man's  axe  in  yon  deep  forest  sounds, 
Up  the  green  steep  the  buskined  hunter  bounds. 
Peace  smiles  on  Yucatan,  and  Autumn  throws 
O'er  wood  and  waste  her  richness  and  repose ; 
The  trees'  deep  brown,  the  lemon's  amber  hue, 
The  bloomy  grape  that  never  culture  knew, 
The  golden  gourd,  the  sugar-dropping  cane, 
The  watered  valley,  and  the  boundless  plain,— 
Such  are  the  sights  this  lonely  tract  displays, 
That  soothe  the  spirit  while  they  charm  the  gaze. 

World  !  wrongly  called  the  New  —  this  clime  was  old 
When  first  the  Spaniard  came,  in  search  of  gold. 
Age  after  age  its  shadowy  wings  had  spread, 
And  man  was  born,  and  gathered  to  the  dead ; 
Cities  arose,  ruled,  dwindled  to  decay, 
Empires  were  formed,  then  darkly  swept  away : 
Race  followed  race,  like  cloud-shades  o'er  the  field, 
The  stranger  still  to  strangers  doomed  to  yield. 
The  last  grand  line  that  swayed  these  hills  and  waves, 
Like  Israel,  wandered  long  mid  wilds  and  caves, 
Then,  settling  in  their  Canaan,  cities  reared, 
Pair  science  wooed,  a  milder  God  revered, 
Till  to  invading  Europe  bowed  their  pride, 
And  pomp,  art,  power,  with  Montezuma  died. 

The  dense  wild  wood  that  hid  the  royal  seat, 
The  lofty  palms  that  choked  the  winding  street, 
Man's  hand  hath  felled,  and  now,  in  day's  fair  light, 
Uxmal's  broad  ruins  burst  upon  the  sight, 


166  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

City  !   whose  date,  whose  builders  are  unknown. 
Gracing  the  wild,  mysterious  and  alone, 
Unchroniclcd  thy  name  on  History's  page, 
No  legend  left  our  fancies  to  engage ; 
Gazing  around,  we  task  the  busy  brain, 
And  who  thy  dwellers  were,  demand  in  vain: 
The  painted  snakes  that  gleam  on  yonder  wall, 
The  Hivites*  worship  haply  might  recall, 
When,  driven  by  Israel  from  their  fatherland, 
They  steered  the  seas,  and  sought  some  Western  strand. 
That  house,  where  burned  the  sacred  fire,  may  tell 
Of  Eastern  climes,  where  Magi  wove  their  spell ; 
While  the  tall  pyramid,  with  temple  crowned, 
And  sculptured  forms  with  flowing  girdles  bound, 
Speak  of  the  Nile, —vain  dreams  !    the  mind  is  lost, 
And  on  a  shoreless  sea  of  fancies  tost. 

Yet  Uxmal's  ruins  no  dark  aspect  wear, 
Beauty  and  grace  with  Time  are  struggling  there. 
The  smooth  stone  palace  rears  its  front  of  white, 
Its  checkered  floors,  broad  courts,  are  bathed  in  light; 
Flowers  deck  the  pyramid's  high  mouldering  side,  — 
On  many  a  wall  the  aloe  lifts  its  pride ; 
Fluttering  in  air,  or  glittering  on  some  tomb, 
The  bird  of  monarchs  spreads  its  purple  plume. 
So  sweetly  sad,  so  silently  serene, 
The  shades  of  ancients  well  might  haunt  the  scene, 
Or  elves  by  moonlight  hold  their  revels  here, 
Play  with  the  beams,  and  drink  the  violet's  tear; 
Dance  round  the  rose,  or  climb  the  lily's  stem, 
Deeming  that  shadowy  city  built  for  them. 

Nicholas  Michell. 


CENTRAL    AMERICA. 

Copan,   Guatemala. 

COPAN, 

PASS  we  yon  wilds  where  Ruin  sternly  lowers, 
And  covering  roofs  of  shrines  and  lofty  towers, 
Ages  have  heaped  the  soil,  till  spreading  trees 
Have  rooted  there,  and  murmur  to  the  breeze. 
Southward  we  press,  where,  screened  from  noontide's 

beam, 

Flows  through  dense  woods  Copan's  pellucid  stream ; 
Here  their  rich  blooms  the  cassia's  stems  unfold, 
And  parrots  spread  their  wings  of  green  and  gold. 
This  wooded  landscape,  picturesque  and  wild, 
Might  charm  the  breast  of  Nature's  fervid  child,  — 
A  desert  of  all  beauteous  things,  —  bees,  flowers, 
Fruits  on  the  boughs,  and  odors  in  the  bowers  ; 
The  green  leaves  whispering,  as  by  spirits  stirred, 
The  mellow  note  from  some  gay-plumaged  bird; 
Paths  rarely  trod  by  man,  —  the  sparry  cave, 
The  trees  that  bend  to  sip  the  glassy  wave,  — 
All  form  a  Paradise  where  Love  might  dwell, 
And  glowing  Fancy  weave  her  brightest  spell. 


168  POEMS    OP    PLACES. 

What  shines  through  yonder  glades  ?  approach  with 

awe, 

A  scene  like  this  the  Old  World  never  saw. 
City  of  shrines  !  the  sainted  and  the  blest ! 
Dark  home  of  priests,  the  Mecca  of  the  West ! 
As  starting  through  the  forest's  tangled  maze, 
Thy  countless  pillars  meet  the  wondering  gaze, 
Some  crushed  by  trees;  and  some  by  lightning  riven, 
These  prostrate  laid,  those  looking  still  to  heaven, 
Each    carved   with    forms   whose    meaning   none   may 

know, 

Each  looking  on  its  altar  spread  below, 
We  scarce  feel  pleasure,  but  a  shrinking  fear, 
As  borne  by  demons  to  some  darker  sphere, 
And  these  were  works  of  foul  and  hellish  pride, 
Where    ghouls    might   dwell,  and   pale-eyed   phantoms 

glide. 

Then,  too,  the  lines  of  Death's  heads  glistening  white, 
Marking  each  ancient  tomb's  long-mouldered  site, 
Chill  while  we  gaze,  and  tell  how  stern  were  those 
Who  bade  their  fathers  in  such  graves  repose. 
Yes,  o'er  Copan  drear  Mystery  spreads  its  veil; 
What  was  its  worship  ?  —  ask  the  sighing  gale  ! 
Ask  of  those  crumbling  altars  moss-o'ergrown, 
Those  dim  carved  shapes,  —  those  idol  blocks  of  stone  ! 
Naught'  do  they  answer ;  darkness  still  must  reign 
Above  the  trackless  wood  and  solemn  plain. 

Nicholas  Michel! , 


COPAN.  169 


COPAN. 

FAR,  in  the  wildest  quinine  wood 
We  found  a  city  old,  —  so  old, 
Its  very  walls  were  turned  to  mould, 
And  stately  trees  upon  them  stood. 
No  history  has  mentioned  it, 
No  map  has  given  it  a  place ; 
The  last  dim  trace  of  tribe  and  race,  — 
The  world's  forgetfulness  is  fit. 

It  held  one  structure  grand  and  mossed, 
Mighty  as  any  castle  sung, 
And  old  when  oldest  Ind  was  young, 
With  threshold  Christian  never  crossed; 
A  temple  builded  to  the  sun, 
Along  whose  sombre  altar- stone 
Brown  bleeding  virgins  had  been  strown 
Like  leaves,  when  leaves  are  crisp  and  dun, 
In  ages  ere  the  Sphinx  was  born, 
Or  Babylon  had  birth  or  morn. 

Joaquin  Miller. 

COPAN, 

OR  more  remote  in  forests  of  Copan 
Are  ancient  sites  of  ruined,  stone-built  cities, 
Where  tumbling  walls  and  statues  yet  well-poised, 
Or  fallen  half  buried  in  the  rank,  black  soil, 


170  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Greet  with  mysterious  mockery  every  eye 
That  looks  upon  their  marble  solitude; 
While  each  grim  figure  with  time-mouldered  lines 
Seems  striving  still  to  tell  its  marvellous  tale. 

Robert  Leighton. 


Nicaragua. 

IN  NICARAGUA. 

HOW  wound  we  through  the  solid  wood, 
With  all  it*  broad  boughs  hung  in  green, 
With  lichen-mosses  trailed  between ! 
How  waked  the  spotted  beasts  of  prey, 
Deep  sleeping  from  the  face  of  day, 
And  dashed  them  like  a  troubled  flood 
Down  some  defile  and  denser  wood  ! 

And  snakes,  long,  lithe,  and  beautiful 
As  green  and  graceful-boughed  bamboo, 
Did  twist  and  twine  them  through  and  through 
The  boughs  that  hung  red-fruited  full. 
One,  monster-sized,  above  me  hung, 
Close  eyed  me  with  his  bright  pink  eyes, 
Then  raised  his  folds,  and  swayed  and  swung, 
And  licked  like  lightning  his  red  tongue, 
Then  oped  his  wide  mouth  with  surprise ; 
He  writhed  and  curved,  and  raised  and  lowered 
His  folds  like  liftings  of  the  tide, 


NICARAGUA.  171 

And  sank  so  low  I  touched  his  side, 
As  I  rode  by,  with  my  broad  sword. 

The  trees  shook  hands  high  overhead, 
And  bowed  and  intertwined  across 
The  narrow  way,  while  leaves  and  moss 
And  luscious  fruit,  gold-hued  and  red, 
Through  all  the  canopy  of  green, 
Let  not  one  sunshaft  shoot  between. 

Birds  hung  and  swung,  green-robed  and  red, 
Or  drooped  in  curved  lines  dreamily, 
Rainbows  reversed,  from  tree  to  tree, 
Or  sang  low-hanging  overhead, — 
Sang  low,  as  if  they  sang  and  slept, 
Sang  faint,  like  some  far  waterfall, 
And  took  no  note  of  us  at  all, 
Though  nuts  that  in  the  way  were  spread 
Did  crush  and  crackle  as  we  stept. 

Wild  lilies,  tall  as  maidens  are, 
As  sweet  of  breath,  as  pearly  fair, 
As  fair  as  faith,  as  pure  as  truth, 
Tell  thick  before  our  every  tread, 
As  in  a  sacrifice  to  ruth, 
And  all  the  air  with  perfume  filled 
More  sweet  than  ever  man  distilled. 
The  ripened  fruit  a  fragrance  shed 
And  hung  in  hand -reach  overhead, 
In  nest  of  blossoms  on  the  shoot,      ""+ 
The  bending  shoot  that  bore  the  fruit. 


172  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

How  ran  the  monkeys  through  the  leaves ! 
How  rushed  they  through,  brown-clad  and  blue, 
Like  shuttles  hurried  through  and  through 
The  threads  a  hasty  weaver  weaves  ! 

How  quick  they  cast  us  fruits  of  gold, 
Then  loosened  hand  and  all  foothold, 
And  hung  limp,  limber,  as  if  dead, 
Hung  low  and  listless  overhead; 
And  all  the  time,  with  half-oped  eyes 
Bent  full  on  us  in  mute  surprise,  — 
Looked  wisely  too,  as  wise  hens  do      < .  ^» 
That  watch  you  with  the  head  askew. 

The  long  days  through  from  blossomed  trees 
There  came  the  sweet  song  of  sweet  bees, 
With  chorus-tones  of  cockatoo 
That  slid  his  beak  along  the  bough, 
And  walked  and  talked  and  hung  and  swung, 
In  crown  of  gold  and  coat  of  blue, 
The  wisest  fool  that  ever  sung, 
Or  had  a  crown,  or  held  a  tongue. 

Oh,  when  we  broke  the  sombre  wood 
And  pierced  at  last  the  sunny  plain, 
How  wild  and  still  with  wonder  stood 
The  proud  mustangs  with  bannered  mane, 
And  necks  that  never  knew  a  rein, 
And  nostrils  lifted  high,  and  blown, 
Fierce  breathing  as  a  hurricane: 
Yet  by  their  leader  held  the  while 


NICARAGUA.  173 

In  solid  column,  square,  and  file, 

And  ranks  more  martial  than  our  own! 


Some  one  above  the  common  kind, 
Some  one  to  look  to,  lean  upon, 
I  think  is  much  a  woman's  mind ; 
But  it  was  mine,  and  I  had  drawn 
A  rein  beside  the  chief  while  we 
Rode  through  the  forest  leisurely; 
When  he  grew  kind  and  questioned  me 
Of  kindred,  home,  and  home  affair, 
Of  how  I  came  to  wander  there, 
And  had  my  father  herds  and  laud 
And  men  in  hundreds  at  command? 
At  which  I  silent  shook  my  head, 
Then,  timid,  met  his  eyes  and  said, 
"Not  so.     Where  sunny  foot-hills  run 
Down  to  the  North  Pacific  sea, 
And  Willamette  meets  the  sun 
In  many  angles,  patiently 
My  father  tends  his  flocks  of  snow, 
And  turns  alone  the  mellow  sod, 
And  sows  some  fields  not  over  broad, 
And  mourns  my  long  delay  in  vain, 
Nor  bids  one  serve-man  come  or  go ; 
While  mother  from  her  wheel  or  churn, 
And  may  be  from  the  milking  shed, 
There  lifts  an  humble  weary  head 
To  watch  and  wish  for  my  return 
Across  the  camas'  blossomed  plain." 


174  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

He  held  his  bent  head  very  low, 
A  sudden  sadness  in  his  air; 
Then  turned  and  touched  my  yellow  hair 
And  took  the  long  locks  in  his  hand, 
Toyed  with  them,  smiled,  and  let  them  go, 
Then  thrummed  about  his  saddle-bow 
As  thought  ran  swift  across  his  face ; 
Then  turning  sudden  from  his  place, 
He  gave  some  short  and  quick  command. 
They  brought  the  best  steed  of  the  band, 
They  swung  a  bright  sword  at  my  side, 
He  bade  me  mount  and  by  him  ride, 
And  from  that  hour  to  the  end 
I  never  felt  the  need  of  friend. 

Joaquin  Miller. 


WALKER'S  GRAVE. 

I  LAY  this  crude  wreath  on  his  dust, 
Inwove  with  sad,  sweet  memories 
Recalled  here  by  these  colder  seas. 
I  leave  the  wild  bird  with  his  trust, 
To  sing  and  say  him  nothing  wrong ; 
I  wake  no  rivalry  of  song. 

He  lies  low  in  the  levelled  sand, 
Unsheltered  from  the  tropic  sun, 
And  now  of  all  he  knew  not  one 
Will  speak  him  fair  in  that  far  land. 
Perhaps  't  was  this  that  made  me  seek, 
Disguised,  his  grave  one  winter-tide; 


NICARAGUA.  175 

A  weakness  for  the  weaker  side, 
A  siding  with  the  helpless  weak. 

A  palm  not  far  held  out  a  hand, 
Hard  by  a  long  green  bamboo  swung, 
And  bent  like  some  great  bow  unstrung, 
And  quivered  like  a  willow  wand; 
Beneath  a  broad  banana's  leaf, 
Perched  on  its  fruits  that  crooked  hang, 
A  bird  in  rainbow  splendor  sang 
A  low  sad  song  of  tempered  grief. 

No  sod,  no  sign,  no  cross  nor  stone, 
But  at  his  side  a  cactus  green 
Upheld  its  lances  long  and  keen; 
It  stood  in  hot  red  sands  alone, 
Flat-palmed  and  fierce  with  lifted  spears; 
One  bloom  of  crimson  crowned  its  head, 
A  drop  of  blood,  so  bright,  so  red, 
Yet  redolent  as  roses'  tears. 
In  my  left  hand  I  held  a  shell, 
All  rosy  lipped  and  pearly  red; 
I  laid  it  by  his  lowly  bed, 
For  he  did  love  so  passing  well 
The  grand  songs  of  the  solemn  sea. 
O  shell!  sing  well,  wild,  with  a  will, 
When  storms  blow  loud  and  birds  be  still, 
The  wildest  sea-song  known  to  thee ! 


I  said  some  things,  with  folded  hands, 
Soft  whispered  in  the  dim  sea-sound, 


176  POEMS   OF    PLACES. 

And  eyes  held  humbly  to  the  ground, 
And  frail  knees  sunken  in  the  sands. 
He  had  done  more  than  this  for  me, 
And  yet  I  could  not  well  do  more : 
I  turned  me  down  the  olive  shore, 
And  set  a  sad  face  to  the  sea. 

Joaquin  Miller. 


SOUTH     AMERICA. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


SOUTH  AMERICA, 

WHEN  o'er  the  Atlantic  wild,  rocked  by  the  blast, 
Sad  Lusitania's  exiled  sovereign  passed, 
Reft  of  her  pomp,  from  her  paternal  throne 
Cast  forth,  and  wandering  to  a  clime  unknown, 
To  seek  a  refuge  on  that  distant  shore, 
That  once  her  country's  legions  dyed  with  gore;  — 
Sudden,  methought,  high  towering  o'er  the  flood, 
Hesperian  world !  thy  mighty  genius  stood ; 
Where  spread,  from  cape  to  cape,  from  bay  to  bay, 
Serenely  blue,  the  vast  Pacific  lay; 
And  the  huge  Cordilleras  to  the  skies 
With  all  their  burning  summits  seemed  to  rise. 
Then  the  stern  spirit  spoke,  and  to  his  voice 
The  waves  and  woods  replied  :  Mountains,  rejoice ! 
Thou  solitary  sea,  whose  billows  sweep 
The  margin  of  my  forests,  dark  and  deep, 
Rejoice !  the  hour  is  come :   the  mortal  blow, 


178  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

That  smote  the  golden  shrines  of  Mexico, 
In  Europe  is  avenged;   and  thou,  proud  Spain, 
Now  hostile  hosts  insult  thy  own  domain; 
Now  Fate,  vindictive,  rolls,  with  refluent  flood, 
.Back  on  thy  shores  the  tide  of  human  blood, 
Think  of  my  murdered  millions  !   of  the.  cries 
That  once  I  heard  from  all  my  kingdoms  rise  ; 
Of  Famine's  feeble  plaint,  of  Slavery's  tear ;  — 
Think,  too,  if  Valor,  Freedom,  Fame,  be  dear, 
How  my  Antarctic  sons,  undaunted,  stood, 
Exacting  groan  for  groan,  and  blood  for  blood; 
And  shouted,  (may  the  sounds  be  hailed  by  thee  !) 
Tyrants,  the  virtuous  and  the  brave  are  free ! 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


SOUTH  AMERICA. 

OL AND  of  wonders !  full  of  all  that 's  fair, 
Sublime,  and  beautiful,  in  earth  and  air, 
As  thus,  thou  new-found  world  !   from  main  to  main, 
We  sweep,  with  Fancy's  eye,  vast  hill  and  plain, 
On  every  side  still  countless  ruins  start, 
To  trace  whose  grandeur  mocks  the  poet's  art. 
From  far  Magellan's  Straits  to  rich  Peru, 
Where  Cuzco's  palaces  the  desert  strew; 
Along  the  Andes  piled,  where  modern  man 
Hath  rarely  climbed  the  awful  scenes  to  scan ; 
From  Amazon  and  Plata's  sun-bright  streams, 
To  Northern  woods  where  scarcely  daylight  gleams; 
Thence  to  the  Western  lakes,  and  mountain  peaks, 


INTRODUCTORY.  179 

Where,  in  his  cloud-rocked  home,  the  eagle  shrieks ; 
Relics  of  men  unknown,  and  times  of  old, 
Raising  our  awe,  our  wonder,  we  behold. 
Mound,  stately  pyramid,  and  pictured  wall, 
That  Asia's  creed  and  Egypt's  art  recall; 
Embattled  towers,  with  ivy-banners  gay, 
And  shrines  that  reptiles  halve  with  grim  Decay; 
These  nameless  wrecks,  to  darkness  long  consigned, 
Prompt  to  strange  thought  the  curious,  musing  mind; 
When  built  ?  and  who  their  founders  ?  —  patient  lore 
To  solve  the  question  fails,  the  task  gives  o'er; 
E'en  daring  Fancy  scarce  attempts  to  raise 
The  shadowy  veil  of  long -departed  days. 

Nicholas  Michell. 


THE  REVENGE  OF  AMERICA. 

WHEN  fierce  Pizarro's  legions  flew 
O'er  ravaged  fields  of  rich  Peru, 
Struck  with  his  bleeding  people's  woes, 
Old  India's  awful  Genius  rose. 
He  sat  on  Andes'  topmost  stone, 
And  heard  a  thousand  nations  groan ; 
For  grief  his  feathery  crown  he  tore, 
To  see  huge  Plata  foam  with  gore ; 
He  broke  his  arrows,  stamped  the  ground, 
To  view  his  cities  smoking  round. 
"  What  woes,"  he  cried,  "  hath  lust  of  gold 
O'er  my  poor  country  widely  rolled ; 
Plunderers,  proceed  !   my  bowels  tear, 


180  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  ye  shall  meet  destruction  there; 
Troia  the  deep-vaulted  mine  shall  rise 
The  insatiate  fiend,  pale  Avarice, 
"Whose  steps  shall  trembling  Justice  fly, 
Peace,  Order,  Law,  and  Amity  ! 
I  see  all  Europe's  children  cursed 
With  lucre's  universal  thirst ; 
The  rage  that  sweeps  my  sons  away, 
My  baneful  gold  shall  well  repay." 

Joseph  Warton. 

YERBA  MATE. 

AMID  those  marshy  woodlands  far  and  wide 
Which  spread  beyond  the  soaring  vulture's  eye, 
There  grew  on  Einpalado's  southern  side 
Groves  of  that  tree  whose  leaves  adust  supply 
The  Spaniards  with  their  daily  luxury; 
A  beverage  whose  salubrious  use  obtains 
Through  many  a  land  of  mines  and  slavery, 
Even  over  all  La  Plata's  sea-like  plains, 
And  Chili's  mountain  realm,  and  proud  Peru's  domains. 

But  better  for  the  injured  Indian  race 
Had  woods  of  manchineel  the  land  o'erspread : 
Yea,  in  that  tree  so  blest  by  Nature's  grace 
A  direr  curse  had  they  inherited, 
Than  if  the  Upas  there  had  reared  its  head 
And  sent  its  baleful  scions  all  around, 
Blasting  where'er  its  effluent  force  was  shed, 
In  air  and  water,  and  the  infected  ground, 
All  things  wherein  the  breath  or  sap  of  life  is  found. 


INTRODUCTORY.  181 

The  poor  Guaranies  dreamt  of  no  such  ill, 
When  for  themselves  in  miserable  hour, 
The  virtues  of  that  leaf,  with  pure  good-will, 
They  taught  their  unsuspected  visitor, 
New  in  the  land  as  yet.     They  learnt  his  power 
Too  soon,  which  law  nor  conscience  could  restrain, 
A  fearless  but  inhuman  conqueror, 
Heart-hardened  by  the  accursed  lust  of  gain, 
0  fatal  thirst  of  gold  !     0  foul  reproach  for  Spain ! 

For  gold  and  silver  had  the  Spaniards  sought, 
Exploring  Paraguay  with  desperate  pains, 
Their  way  through  forests  axe  in  hand  they  wrought ; 
Drenched  from  above  by  unremitting  rains 
They  waded  over  inundated  plains, 
Forward  by  hope  of  plunder  still  allured ; 
So  they  might  one  day  count  their  golden  gains, 
They  cared  not  at  what  cost  of  sin  procured, 
All  dangers  they  defied,  all  sufferings  they  endured. 

Barren  alike  of  glory  and  of  gold 
That  region  proved  to  them ;   nor  would  the  soil 
Unto  their  unindustrious  hands  unfold 
Harvests,  the  fruit  of  peace,  —  and  wine  and  oil, 
The  treasures  that  repay  contented  toil 
With  health  and  weal ;  treasures  that  with  them  bring 
No  guilt  for  priest  and  penance  to  assoil, 
Nor  with  their  venom  arm  the  awakened  sting 
Of  conscience  at  that  hour  when  life  is  vanishing. 

But  keen  of  eye  in  their  pursuit  of  gain 
The  conquerors  looked  for  lucre  in  this  tree : 


182 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


An  annual  harvest  there  might  they  attain, 
Without  the  cost  of  annual  industry. 
'Twas  but  to  gather  in  what  there  grew  free 
And  share  Potosi's  wealth.     Nor  thence  alone. 
But  gold  in  glad  exchange  they  soon  should  see 
From  all  that  once  the  Incas  called  their  own, 
Or  where   the   Zippa's    power  or   Zaque's   laws  were 
known. 

For  this,  in  fact  though  not  in  name  a  slave, 
The  Indian  from  his  family  was  torn; 
And  droves  on  droves  were  sent  to  find  a  grave 
In  woods  and  swamps,  by  toil  severe  outworn, 
No  friend  at  hand  to  succor  or  to  mourn, 
In  death  unpitied,  as  in  life  unblest. 
O  miserable  race,  to  slavery  born! 
Yet  when  we  look  beyond  this  world's  unrest, 
More  miserable  then  the  oppressors  than  the  opprest. 

Robert  Southey. 


SOUTH    AMERICA 

Amazon,  the  Eiver  (Orellana). 

THE  EIVER  AMAZON. 


I 


N  roaring  cataracts  down  Andes'  channelled  steeps 

Mark  how  enormous  Orellana  sweeps  ! 
Monarch  of  mighty  floods  !  supremely  strong, 
Foaming  from  cliff  to  cliff,  he  whirls  along, 
Swoln  with  an  hundred  hills'  collected  snows  : 
Thence  over  nameless  regions  widely  flows, 
Round  fragrant  isles,  and  citron-groves, 
Where  still  the  naked  Indian  roves, 
And  safely  builds  his  leafy  bower, 
From  slavery  far,  and  curst  Iberian  power. 

Joseph  Warton. 

THE  CRY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL. 

TN  that  black  forest,  where,  when  day  is  done, 
L  With  a  snake's  stillness  glides  the  Amazon 
Darkly  from  sunset  to  the  rising  sun, 


184  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  cry,  as  of  the  pained  heart  of  the  wood, 
The  long,  despairing  moan  of  solitude 
And  darkness  and  the  absence  of  all  good, 

Startles  the  traveller,  with  a  sound  so  drear, 

So  full  of  hopeless  agony  and  fear, 

His  heart  stands  still  and  listens  like  his  ear. 

The  guide,  as  if  he  heard  a  dead-bell  toll, 
Starts,  drops  his  oar  against  the  gunwale's  thole, 
Crosses  himself,  and  whispers,  "A  lost  soul!" 

"  No,  Senor,  not  a  bird.     I  know  it  well,  — 
It  is  the  pained  soul  of  some  infidel 
Or  cursed  heretic  that  cries  from  hell. 

"  Poor  fool  !  with  hope  still  mocking  his  despair, 
He  wanders,  shrieking  on  the  midnight  air 
For  human  pity  and  for  Christian  prayer. 

"  Saints  strike  him  dumb  !     Our  Holy  Mother  hath 
No  prayer  for  him  who,  sinning  unto  death, 
Burns  always  in  the  furnace  of  God's  wrath  ! " 

Thus  to  the  baptized  pagan's  cruel  lie, 
Lending  new  horror  to  that  mournful  cry, 
The  voyager  listens,  making  no  reply. 

Dim  burns  the  boat-lamp :  shadows  deepen  round, 
From  giant  trees  with  snake-like  creepers  wound, 
And  the  black  water  glides  without  a  sound. 

But  in  the  traveller's  heart  a  secret  sense 
Of  nature  plastic  to  benign  intents, 
And  an  eternal  good  in  Providence, 


ANDES,    THE    MOUNTAINS.  185 

Lifts  to  the  starry  calm  of  heaven  his  eyes; 
And  lo  !  rebuking  all  earth's  ominous  cries, 
The  Cross  of  pardon  lights  the  tropic  skies  ! 

"  Father  of  all !  "  he  urges  his  strong  plea, 
"  Thou  lovest  all ;  thy  erring  child  may  be 
Lost  to  himself,  but  never  lost  to  Thee ! 

"  All  souls  are  Thine ;  the  wings  of  morning  bear 
None  from  that  Presence,  which  is  everywhere, 
Nor  hell  itself  can  hide,  for  Thou  art  there. 

"  Through  sins  of  sense,  perversities  of  will, 
Through  doubt  and  pain,  through  guilt  and  shame  and 

ill, 
Thy  pitying  eye  is  on  Thy  creature  still. 

"  Wilt  thou  not  make,  Eternal  Source  and  Goal ! 
In  thy  long  years,  life's  broken  circle  whole, 
And  change  to  praise  the  cry  of  a  lost  soul  ?  " 

John  Green  leaf  Whittier. 


Andes,  the  Mountains. 

THE  ANDES. 

BEYOND  the  misty  main 
The  weary  eye  scarce  wanders,  when  behold 
Plata,  through  vaster  territory  poured; 
And  Andes,  sweeping  the  horizon's  tract, 
Mightiest  of  mountains  !  whose  eternal  snows 


186  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Teel  not  the  nearer  sun;  whose  umbrage  chills 
The  murmuring  ocean ;  whose  volcanic  fires 
A  thousand  nations  view,  hung  like  the  moon 
High  in  the  middle  waste  of  heaven;  thy  range, 
Shading  far  off  the  Southern  hemisphere, 

A  dusky  file  Titanic. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


THE  VALLEY  IN  THE  ANDES. 

BENEATH  aerial  cliffs  and  glittering  snows 
The  rush-roof  of  an  aged  warrior  rose, 
Chief  of  the  mountain  tribes  :  high  overhead, 
The  Andes,  wild  and  desolate,  were  spread, 
Where  cold  Sierras  shot  their  icy  spires, 
And  Chilian  trailed  its  smoke  and  smouldering  fires. 
A  glen  beneath,  a  lonely  spot  of  rest, 
Hung,  scarce  discovered,  like  an  eagle's  nest. 

Slimmer  was  in  its  prime; — the  parrot-flocks 
Darkened  the  passing  sunshine  on  the  rocks; 
The  chrysomel  and  purple  butterfly, 
Amid  the  clear  blue  light,  are  wandering  by; 
The  humming-bird,  along  the  myrtle  bowers, 
With  twinkling  wing,  is  spinning  o'er  the  flowers, 
The  woodpecker  is  heard  with  busy  bill, 
The  mock-bird  sings,  —  and  all  beside  is  still. 
And  look!  the  cataract  that  bursts  so  high, 
As  not  to  mar  the.  deep  tranquillity, 
The  tumult  of  its  dashing  fall  suspends, 
And,  stealing  drop  by  drop,  in  mist  descends ; 


Beneath  the  mountain's  glittering  heads 
A  boundless  oceau  of  gray  vapor 


tee  page  187. 


ANDES,    THE    MOUNTAINS.  187 

Through  whose  illumined  spray  and  sprinkling  dews 
Shine  to  the  adverse  sun  the  broken  rainbow  hues. 
Checkering,  with  partial  shade,  the  beams  of  noon, 
And  arching  the  gray  rock  with  wild  festoon, 
Here  its  gay  network  and  fantastic  twine 
The  purple  cogul  threads  from  pine  to  pine, 
And  oft,  as  the  fresh  airs  of  morning  breathe, 
Dips  its  long  tendrils  in  the  stream  beneath. 
There,  through  the  trunks  with  moss  and  lichens  white, 
The  sunshine  darts  its  interrupted  light, 
And,  mid  the  cedar's  darksome  boughs,  illumes, 
With  instant  touch,  the  Lori's  scarlet  plumes. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


MORNING  ON  THE  ANDES, 

IS  dawn ;  —  the  distant  Andes'  rocky  spires, 
One  after  one,  have  caught  the  orient  fires. 
Where  the  dun  condor  shoots  his  upward  flight, 
His  wings  are  touched  with  momentary  light. 
Meantime,  beneath  the  mountains'  glittering  heads, 
A  boundless  ocean  of  gray  vapor  spreads, 
That  o'er  the  champaign,  stretching  far  below, 
Moves  now,  in  clustered  masses,  rising  slow, 
Till  all  the  living  landscape  is  displayed 
In  various  pomp  of  color,  light,  and  shade, 
Hills,  forests,  rivers,  lakes,  and  level  plain 
Lessening  in  sunshine  to  the  southern  main. 
The  llama's  fleece  fumes  with  ascending  dew; 
The  gem-like  humming-birds  their  toils  renew; 


188  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  there,  by  the  wild  river's  devious  side, 
The  tall  flamingo,  in  its  crimson  pride, 
Stalks  on,  in  richest  plumage  bright  arrayed, 
With  snowy  neck  superb,  and  legs  of  lengthening  shade. 

William  Lisle  Bowles. 


CHURCH'S  "HEART  OF  THE  ANDES." 

HHRA  VERSE  the  oceans,  seek  for  unknown  strands; 
J-   With    great    explorers     ride     through    marvellous 

lands ; 

Walk  with  the  poet  where  his  kingdom  lies,  — 
A  realm  of  light  beneath  enchanted  skies ; 
Between  bright  islands  sail  the  spicy  seas, 
Beside  the  mighty-hearted  Genoese ; 
Conquer  with  Cortes  the  barbaric  states, 
And  pass  through  El  Dorado's  golden  gates ; 
Shout  with  the  great  Balboa  and  his  crew, 
What  time  a  new  sea  sparkles  into  view; 
With  Ponce  de  Leon  seek  the  fabled  stream 
Through  flowery  valleys  brighter  than  his  dream ; 
But  never  any  sight  of  new-found  land 
Shall  equal  this,  where  we  entranced  stand, 
With  dewy  eyes  and  overflowing  heart, 
Gazing  from  the  exalted  hill  of  Art ! 

This  is  not  sorrowing  Italy,  nor  these 

The  storied  windings  of  the  Pyrenees, 

Nor  are  yon  high  and  trackless  realms  of  snow 

The  over-travelled  Alps,  the  guide-man's  show! 

But  these,  in  depth  of  equatorial  green, 


BRAZIL.  189 

Are  the  fresli  Cordilleras,  where  between 

Wander  bewildering  rivers,  dancing  down 

Their  rocky  terraces  of  golden  brown, 

Clapping  their  watery  hands.     About  the  falls 

The  trees  are  wreathed  like  happy  bacchanals. 

Here  blooms  a  world  that  fears  nor  cold  nor  drouth, 

The  lavish  luxury  of  the  teeming  South, 

The  carnival  of  summer,  far  and  near, 

In  lands  where  summer  lords  it  all  the  year; 

And  over  all,  his  Andean  front  aglow, 

Great  Chimborazo  sits,  his  throne  of  snow  ! 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


Brazil. 

FREEDOM  IN  BRAZIL. 

WITH  clearer  light,  Cross  of  the  South,  shine  forth 
In  blue  Brazilian  skies; 
And  thou,  O  river,  cleaving  half  the  earth 

From  sunset  to  sunrise, 
From  the  great  mountains  to  the  Atlantic  waves 

Thy  joy's  long  anthem  pour. 
Yet  a  few  days  (God  make  them  less  !)  and  slaves 

Shall  shame  thy  pride  no  more. 
No  fettered  feet  thy  shaded  margins  press; 

But  all  men  shall  walk  free 
Where  thou,  the  high-priest  of  the  wilderness, 

Hast  wedded  sea  to  sea. 


190  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  them,  great-hearted  ruler,  through  whose  mouth 

The  word  of  God  is  said, 
Once  more,  "  Let  there  be  light !  "  —  Son  of  the  South, 

Lift  up  thy  honored  head, 
Wear  unashamed  a  crown  by  thy  desert 

More  than  by  birth  thy  own, 
Careless  of  watch  and  ward ;   thou  art  begirt 

By  grateful  hearts  alone. 
The  moated  wall  and  battle-ship  may  fail, 

But  safe  shall  justice  prove ; 
Stronger  than  greaves  of  brass  or  iron  mail 

The  panoply  of  love. 

Crowned  doubly  by  man's  blessing  and  God's  grace, 

Thy  future  is  secure ; 
Who  frees  a  people  makes  his  statue's  place 

In  Time's  Valhalla  sure. 
Lo !  from  his  Neva's  banks  the  Scythian  Czar 

Stretches  to  thee  his  hand, 
Who,  with  the  pencil  of  the  Northern  star, 

Wrote  freedom  on  his  land. 
And  he  whose  grave  is  holy  by  our  calm 

And  prairied  Sangamon, 
From  his  gaunt  hand  shall  drop  the  martyr's  palm 

To  greet  thee  with  "  Well  done ! " 

And  thou,  0  Earth,  with  smiles  thy  face  make  sweet, 

And  let  thy  wail  be  stilled, 
To  hear  the  Muse  of  prophecy  repeat 

Her  promise  half  fulfilled. 
The  Yoice  that  spake  at  Nazareth  speaks  still, 


BRAZIL.  191 

No  sound  thereof  hath  died ; 
Alike  thy  hope  and  Heaven's  eternal  will 

Shall  yet  be  satisfied. 
The  years  are  slow,  the  vision  tarrieth  long, 

And  far  the  end  may  be; 
But,  one  by  one,  the  fiends  of  ancient  wrong 

Go  out  and  leave  thee  free. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


AGASSIZ  IN  BEAZIL. 

fTlHE  crimson  monads  of  the  deep, 
1   The  flying-fish  with  fitful  leap, 
Assai  palms  of  matchless  grace, 
The  giant  in  the  vine's  embrace,  — 
These  were  his  books  while  journeying  on 
To  read  the  unknown  Amazon. 

Where  birds  and  gorgeous  insects  flew 
Mid  tropic  flowers  of  iris  hue; 
In  woods  where  fragrant  myrtles  crept 
He  saw  where  once  the  glacier  swept; 
So  nature's  history  grows  clear 
When  masters  of  the  race  draw  near. 

To  king  and  Indian,  child  and  slave, 
What  rapture  his  sweet  humor  gave ! 
Oft  when  some  truth,  by  patient  toil, 
He  found  confirmed  in  rock  and  soil, 
From  changing  nature  turned  his  gaze 
To  give  the  unchanging  Maker  praise. 


192  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Brazil,  within  thy  breast  are  gems 
To  glow  in  future  diadems, 
But  none  can  equal  those  he  set 
In  Science3  burning  coronet; 
Upon  the  world  they  gleam  afar 
As  brilliant  as  the  evening  star. 

Fletcher  Bates. 


Buenos  Ayres. 

NATIONAL  HYMN. 

TJAIIK !  hear  the  sounds,  the  sounds  that  are  swell 
ing, 

We  are  free !  we  are  free !  we  are  free  ! 
Hark !  hear  you,  our  fetters  are  breaking ! 

On  her  throne  noble  Liberty  see ! 
In  the  sight  of  the  world  has  arisen 

A  nation  glorious,  rejoicing,  and  free, 
Her  fair  brow  with  laurels  encircled, 
The  proud  lion  of  Spain  at  her  knee. 
Green  forever  be  the  laurels 
Which  our  brows  encircle  high  ! 
We  've  won  them,  we  '11  wear  them  with  glory, 
Let  us  swear,  when  we  lose  them,  to  die  ! " 

The  breast  of  each  grim-visaged  champion 
Great  Mars  with  fell  rage  does  inspire; 

With  fury  each  brave  heart  is  burning, 
And  glows  with  the  heaven-kindled  fire. 


BUENOS    AYRES.  193 

The  earth  with  our  firm  tramp  is  shaking, 

The  Inca  is  roused  in  his  grave, 
For  he  feels  that  his  children  are  waking 

The  proud  name  of  their  country  to  save  ! 

From  the  mountains  the  war-cry  is  rising  ! 

Prom  the  cities  it  echoes  afar; 
The  plains  all  around  are  resounding 

With  "  Liberty,  vengeance,  and  war  !  " 
The  breast  of  the  proud-hearted  tyrants 

Foul  envy  has  touched  with  her  gall, 
And  now,  their  red  banner  unfurling, 

For  battle  and  slaughter  they  call. 

On  Mexico  now,  and  on  Quito 

The  march  of  the  tyrants  we  see, 
Hear  the  wail  of  the  blood-flowing  cities, 

Cochabamba,  La  Paz,  Potosi ! 
See  them  now  upon  mourning  Caraccas 

Bring  carnage  and  weeping  and  woe  ! 
Now  behold  them,  like  tigers  devouring 

The  nations  their  power  has  brought  low ! 

On  you  now,  O  valiant  Argentines, 

The  invader  has  come  in  his  pride  ! 
Your  plains  he  is  trampling,  insulting, 

And  thinks  o'er  your  glories  to  ride  ! 
But  soon  on  these  bloodthirsty  tigers 

Our  stout-hearted  champions  shall  fall, 
And  vainly  shall  they  be  resisted 

Who  rallied  at  Liberty's  call. 


194  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

To  arms  the  true-hearted  Argentines 

Are  rushing  with  generous  zeal; 
Through  the  plains  of  the  South  is  resounding 

The  trumpet's  awakening  peal ! 
The  hosts  of  the  Union  are  inarching, 

Buenos  Ayres  the  van  does  maintain, 
And  the  arms  of  our  champions  are  tearing 

The  proud,  cruel  Lion  of  Spain ! 

San  Jose,  San  Lorenzo,  Suipacha, 

Both  Piedras,  Salta,  Tucumaii, 
And  the  tyrant's  sure  stronghold,  Colonia, 

And  those  in  the  Band  Oriental, 
Bear  inscriptions  eternal  that  tell  us 

"The  Argentines  here  conquered  their  foe, 
Here  the  cruel  oppressor  was  vanquished, 

And  here  his  proud  head  was  brought  low  ! " 

Now  victory,  on  sun-lighted  pinions, 

Above  us  is  soaring  on  high, 
And  the  tyrant's  base,  cowardly  minions 

In  fear  from  the  battle-field  fly  ! 
His  banners,  his  arms,  now  surrendered, 

As  Liberty's  trophies  we  own, 
And  the  nation,  triumphant  in  glory, 

Is  crowding  round  Liberty's  throne ! 

From  pole  to  pole  hear  now  resounding 
The  shrill-blowing  trumpet  of  fame, 

It  tells  and  repeats  to  all  nations 
The  sound  of  America's  name ! 

Now,  Liberty's  throne  in  surrounding 


COLOMBIA  (NEW  GRANADA).  195 

Hear  it  ringing  from  mountain  to  sea ! 
"  God  save  the  Argentine  Republic  ! " 
"  God  prosper  the  land  of  the  free  ! " 

Green  forever  be  the  laurels 

Which  our  brows  encircle  high  ! 
We  've  won  them,  we  '11  wear  them  with  glory, 
Let  us  swear,  when  we  lose  them,  to  die ! " 

Don  Vincente  Lopez.     Tr.  II.  Ware. 


Colombia  (New  Granada). 

BOLIVAR. 

A  DIRGE  is  wailing  from  the  Gulf  of  storm-vexed 
Mexico, 

To  where  through  Pampas'  solitudes,  the  mighty  rivers 
flow; 

The  dark  Sierras  hear  the  sound,  and  from  each  moun 
tain  rift, 

Where  Andes  and  Cordilleras  their  awful  summits  lift, 

Where  Cotopaxi's  fiery  eye  glares  redly  upon  heaven, 

And  Chimborazo's  shattered  peak  the  upper  sky  has 
riven,  — 

From  mount  to  mount,  from  wave  to  wave,  a  wild  and 
long  lament, 

A  sob  that  shakes  like  her  earthquakes  the  startled 
continent  I 


196  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  light  dies  out,  a  life  is  sped,  —  the  hero's  at  whose 
word 

The  nations  started  as  from  sleep,  and  girded  on  the 
sword, 

The  victor  of  a  hundred  fields  where  blood  was  poured 
like  rain, 

And  Freedom's  loosened  avalanche  hurled  down  the  hosts 
of  Spain, 

The  eagle  soul  on  Junin's  slope  who  showed  Ins  shout 
ing  men 

A  grander  sight  than  Balboa  saw  from  wave-washed 
Darien, 

As  from  the  snows  with  battle  red  died  out  the  sinking 
sun, 

And  broad  and  vast  beneath  him  lay  a  world  for  free 
dom  won. 

How  died  that  victor  ?  In  the  field  with  banners  o'er 
him  thrown, 

With  trumpets  in  his  failing  ear,  by  charging  squad 
rons  blown, 

With  scattered  foemen  flying  fast  and  fearfully  before 
him, 

With  shouts  of  triumph  swelling  round,  and  brave  men 
bending  o'er  him  ? 

Not  on  his  fields  of  victory,  nor  in  his  council  hall, 

The  worn  and  sorrowing  leader  heard  the  inevitable  call. 

Alone  he  perished  in  the  land  he  saved  from  Slavery's 
ban, 

Maligned  and  doubted  and  denied,  a  broken-hearted 
man! 


COLOMBIA  (NEW  GRANADA).  197 

Now  let  the  New  World's  banners   droop   above  the 

fallen  chief, 
And  let  the  mountaineer's  dark  eyes  be  wet  with  tears 

of  grief !  — 
Tor  slander's  sting,  for  envy's  hiss,  for  friendship  hatred 

grown, 
Can  funeral  pomp,  and  tolling  bell,  and  priestly  mass 

atone  ?  — 
Better  to  leave  unmourned  the  dead,  than  wrong  men 

while  they  live ; 
What  if  the  strong  man  failed  or  erred,  could  not  his 

own  forgive  ? 

0  people  freed  by  him,  repent  above  your  hero's  bier : 
The  sole  resource  of  late  remorse  is  now  his  tomb  to 

rear ! 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


THE  SWORD  OF  BOLIVAR. 

WITH  the  steadfast  stars  ^bove  us, 
And  the  molten  stars  below, 
We  sailed  through  the  Southern  midnight, 
By  the  coast  of  Mexico. 

Alone,  on  the  desolate,  dark-ringed, 

Rolling  and  flashing  sea, 
A  grim  old  Venezuelan 

Kept  the  deck  with  me, 

And  talked  to  me  of  his  country, 
And  the  long  Spanish  war, 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  told  how  a  young  Republic 
Forged  the  sword  of  Bolivar. 

Of  no  base  mundane  metal 

Was  the  wondrous  weapon  made, 

And  in  no  earth-born  fire 

Was  fashioned  the  sacred  blade. 

But  that  it  might  shine  the  symbol 
Of  law  and  light  in  the  land, 

Dropped  down  as  a  star  from  heaven, 
To  flame  in  a  hero's  hand, 

And  be  to  the  world  a  portent 
Of  eternal  might  and  right, 

They  chose  for  the  steel  a  splinter 
From  a  fallen  aerolite. 

Then  a  virgin  forge  they  builded 
By  the  city,  and  kindled  it 

With  flame  from  a  shattered  palm-tree, 
Which  the  lightning's  torch  had  lit,- 

That  no  fire  of  earthly  passion 
Might  taint  the  holy  sword, 

And  no  ancient  error  tarnish 
The  falchion  of  the  Lord. 

For  Quito  and  New  Granada 

And  Venezuela  they  pour 
From  three  crucibles  the  dazzling 

White  meteoric  ore. 


COLOMBIA  (NEW  GKANADA).  199 

In  three  ingots  it  is  moulded, 

And  welded  into  one, 
For  an  emblem  of  Colombia, 

Bright  daughter  of  the  sun ! 

It  is  drawn  on  a  virgin  anvil, 

It  is  heated  and  hammered  and  rolled, 

It  is  shaped  and  tempered  and  burnished, 
And  set  in  a  hilt  of  gold; 

For  thus  by  the  fire  and  the  hammer 

Of  war  a  nation  is  built, 
And  ever  the  sword  of  its  power 

Is  swayed  by  a  golden  hilt. 

Then  with  pomp  and  oratory 

The  mustachioed  senores  brought 
To  the  house  of  the  Liberator 

The  weapon  they  had  wrought; 

And  they  said,  in  their  stately  phrases, 

"  0  mighty  in  peace  and  war ! 
No  mortal  blade  we  bring  you, 

But  a  naming  meteor. 

"  The  sword  of  the  Spaniard  is  broken, 

And  to  you  in  its  stead  is  given, 
To  lead  and  redeem  a  nation, 
This  ray  of  light  from  heaven." 

The  gaunt-faced  Liberator 

From  their  hands  the  symbol  took, 


200  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  waved  it  aloft  in  the  sunlight, 
With  a  high,  heroic  look; 

And  he  called  the  saints  to  witness : 
"  May  these  lips  turn  into  dust, 

And  this  right  hand  fail,  if  ever 
It  prove  recreant  to  its  trust ! 

"Never  the  sigh  of  a  bondman 
Shall  cloud  this  gleaming  steel, 

But  only  the  foe  and  the  traitor 
Its  vengeful  edge  shall  feel. 

"  Never  a  tear  of  my  country 

Its  purity  shall  stain, 
Till  into  your  hands,  who  gave  it, 
I  render  it  again." 
*  *  * 

Anonymous. 

Corcovado,  the  Mountain,  Brazil. 

THE  COECOYADO. 

OFT  had  I  visited  this  splendid  Bay, 
Or  River  of  January,  so  miscalled 
By  the  old  voyagers,  who  deemed  that  here 
Some  mighty  stream,  rivalling  the  Amazon, 
Emptied  its  wealth  of  waters  ;    oft  my  fancy 
Had  soared  to  the  Sublime,  scaling  the  heights 
Around  me,  with  all  Beauty  at  its  feet : 
But  I  had  been  content,  with  bodily  foot 


"  Through  forests  dense  "    See  page  201. 


CORCOVADO,  THE  MOUNTAIN.        201 

Planted  upon  no  loftier  pinnacle 

Than  the  ship's  deck,  to  gaze,  not  undelighted, 

Upon  this  lucid  harbor-sheet,  embosomed 

In  its  sweet  zone  of  hills,  so  wild  and  lovely 

That  Nature  seems,  in  her  most  frolic  mood, 

To  have  shaped  out  and  richly  pranked  them  forth, 

Lavish  of  light  and  generous  with  her  green. 

Now,  more  aspiring,  I  have  wearily  toiled 
Up  the  steep  bed  of  mountain  streams,  beside 
The  gray-mossed  aqueduct,  through  forests  dense, 
Shut  from  the  wind  but  open  to  the  sun, 
With  limbs  grown  languid  and  quick-panted  breathing ; 
And  I  have  reached  the  topmost  crag  which  crowns 
The  Corcovado  :   its  peculiar  peak, 
Seen  from  below,  with  one  precipitous  side, 
Not  all  unlike  a  superincumbent  billow 
Walled  up  against  the  shore  in  act  to  break,  — 
So  pausing  "on  the  curl"  forevermore. 
But  here,  on  its  high  summit  all-commanding, 
What  view  is  mine  ?     Alas  !   a  blinding  mist 
Is  all,  which,  swept  from  seaward  by  the  breeze, 
Foldeth  the  mountain  in  its  white  cloud-fleeces. 
There  is  a  heavy  sound  upon  the  wind, 
Whether  from  over,  under,  or  around, 
A  roaring  like  the  noise  of  many  waters, 
A  roll  like  thunders  long  reverberate, 
Filling  the  wide  air  with  sustained  pealing. 
As  did  Ixion,  in  the  Grecian  fable, 
I  have  stretched  forth  my  hand  to  clasp  a  goddess, 
Seeking  and  yearning  for  the  Beautiful 


202  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

In  its  divinest  essence.,  —  and  I  meet 

The  embraces  of  a  cloud ;  —  and  angry  Jove 

Threatens  with  the  loud  thunder  all  the  while  ! 

The  passing  thought  fleets  with  the  passing  cloud, 
Which  travels  inland,  riding  on  the  wind, — 
And,  lo  !  the  blue  Atlantic,  breaking  white 
Upon  the  white-beached  mainland  and  the  islands, 
With  a  long  roll  and  a  loud  roar,  —  in  chorus 
Booming  the  mighty  multitudinous  Deep! 
All  lesser  tumult  heard  not  at  this  height, 
I  listen  to  the  voice  of  sovereign  Power; 
Power,  the  majestic,  the  unchainable, 
The  infinite  and  eternal  Power  of  God  ! 
Here  speaks  it  ever.  —  But  how  solemnly 
Is  the  primeval  and  enduring  Force 
Of  all  things  stamped  on  these  insensate  cliffs  ! 
There  was  a  time,  when,  silent  as  they  stand, 
Hard  now  and  steadfast,  chaos  rocked  and  raged, 
And  they,  with  fierce  heat  liquid,  were  upheaved 
Into  these  forms  fantastic:    so  convulsed 
Was  never  Ocean  in  his  stormiest  hour. 
The  lapsing  ages  leave  them  as  they  are, 
Revealing  yet  Earth's  strong  original  frame, 
But  showing,  too,  how  Strength  is  loved  of  Beauty, 
Whose  gentler  spirit,  like  a  younger  Nature, 
Doth,  with  caressing  tendrils  clasping  it, 
Make,  as  Love  ever  doth,  its  object  lovely: 
Hebe  had  bound,  with  rosy-taper  fingers, 
A  chaplet  thus  on  brows  of  Hercules : 
So  doth  a  childish  sister  love  to  sport 


CORCOVADO,    THE    MOUNTAIN.  203 

With  a  stern  elder,  dear  to  her  withal: 

The  very  rocks,  the  great  rocks  ramparting 

The  dusk  ravines,  are,  by  her  summer  breath, 

Made  gay,  laughing  out  into  lustrous  flowers; 

And  all  the  massy  tropical  foliage 

Glows,  in  her  sunlight,  of  so  glad  a  green 

It  wel  cometh  the  wanderer  from  the  sea 

With  the  warm  welcome  of  a  loved  one's  smile ! 

With  Youth  and  Morning,  from  the  smoking  crater 
Of  dark  Vesuvius,  I  have  seen  the  sun 
Rise  diamond-clear  upon  thy  rosy  sea, 
Thy  mountain-islands  and  romantic  shores, 
0  Naples,  beautiful  in  boyish  dreams ! 
Disparagement  seems  sacrilege  to  thee, 
And  thy  domains,  divine  Parthenope  ! 
Yet  may  the  New  World  claim  fair  rivalry, 
Her  birthright,  dowered  by  the  Beautiful, 
As  here,  with  such  exuberant  natural  charms 
They  need  no  other  ornament,  and  ask 
No  interest  borrowed  from  the  storied  past. 
What  though  no  monuments  nor  memories, 
No  mythic  legend  and  no  ethnic  verse, 
Haunt  land  and  sea,  and  hallow  all  the  air? 
Lo  !   down  this  precipice  I  could  drop  the  plummet 
Into  a  bay  surpassing  Baia, 
By  Virgil  lined  with  his  Elysian  Fields: 
There,  where  its  beauty  nestles  in  the  mountains, 
Gardens  are  mapped  beneath  me,  dark  and  rich 
With  bowers,  wherein  no  Queen  of  old  Romance 
Hath  woven  enchantments  and  no  antique  Grace 


204  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Breathed  sanctity,  yet  to  whose  bloomy  shades 

Dear  Nature,  visioned  like  Egeria, 

Might  come,  though  universal  as  the  air, 

And  look  into  the  heart  of  him  who  loved  her 

With  a  peculiar  smile  for  him  alone  : 

There,  in  the  mountain-shadows  glossy  green, 

Undimpled  as  the  face  of  quiet  thought, 

Its  waters  scarcely  crisp  enough  to  mark 

Their  margin  on  the  silver-sanded  shore, 

And  the  ear  catches  not  their  cadencing  — 

Sweet  bay  of  Botofogo  !     Far  away, 

Yon  Organ  Mountains,  through  whose  pipes  stupendous, 

Shooting  up  miles  into  the  cloudless  ether, 

Nature  might  swell  eternal  anthem-music 

To  the  beneficent  Heaven,  —  with  what  superb 

Disdain  would  they  o'erlook  the  Apennines  ! 

Capri  and  Ischia,  —  what  are  they  to  these 

Islands  and  towery  isolations  round  me, 

At  once  so  picturesque  and  so  imposing? 

Earth  has  no  equal,  glorious  as  thou  art, 

Sea  of  the  Siren !    to  tiiis  ocean-flood, 

Rolled  up  among  the  mountains  and  the  hills; 

Sweeping  into  deep  coves  with  sheltering  headlands, 

With  long  curves  of  white  beach  and  creamy  foam ; 

Its  whole  broad  surface  like  a  shield  of  silver,  — 

A  noble  shield,  large  as  the  giant-gods, 

Who,  climbing  Heaven,  piled  Pelion  upon  Ossa, 

Might  have  upheld;    a  glittering  shield,  embossed 

With  massive  emeralds;    such  those  linked  hills 

And  lovely  isles  seem  in  their  gem-like  green. 

Upon  its  bosom  the  tall  thronging  ships 


CORCOVADO,    THE    MOUNTAIN.  205 

Show  like  a  fleet  of  their  own  boats  at  anchor ; 

And,  on  its  shores,  the  imperial  capital 

Of  the  Brazils  is  dwarfed  so  by  the  distance 

It  might  beseem  the  court  of  Liliput, 

A  populous  ant-hill  metropolitan : 

Yet  scarce  less  spacious  the  still  waters  seem 

Than  when  I  viewed  them  from  the  ship  or  shore, 

Though  from  this  lofty  rock  o'erlooking  them, 

O'erlookiug  with  the  mountains  —  my  compeers  ! 

Yea,  in  the  exaltation  of  my  thought, 
And  actual  elevation,  these  huge  piles 
Of  senseless  granite  look  like  things  of  life, 
And  I  am  of  them  —  they  are  my  compeers  ! 
I  drink  in  something  of  the  strong  delight 
Which  plumes  the  eagle,  drinking  of  the  morning, 
Ere,  soaring  upward  from  his  rock-built  eyrie, 
He  melts  away,  a  star  into  the  sunlight. 
And  I  can  fancy  winged  Mercury, 
When,  having  stolen  Jove's  sceptre  for  a  time, 
He  lords  it  from  the  top  of  high  Olympus,  — 
The  Universe  beneath  his  feathered  heel! 

Long  shall  my  sense  of  ampler  being,  long 
This  interfusion  with  sublimer  things 
And  this  perception  of  diviner  power 
Than  oft  are  given  us,  live  within  my  soul ! 
Long  shall  this  grandeur  live  upon  my  eye, 
When,  with  its  imagery  magnificent, 
Its  shadows  broad  and  sunbright  colorings, 
The  panorama  shall  have  passed  away  ! 

William  Gibson. 


206  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Gallo,  the  Island,  Ecuador. 

CROSSING  THE  LINE. 

pIZAKRO'S  crimes  of  perfidy  and  blood, 

So  largely  due  to  training,  time,  and  race, 
Obscure  the  brilliance  of  the  hero  still  ; 
Yet  once,  at  least,  immortally  he  stood, 
Sublime  in  utterance,  sublime  in  will, 
While  looking  awful  Peril  in  the  face. 

He  calls  his  men,  and  at  the  leader's  word, 

Their  presence  answers  quick,  though  sore  depressed. 

All  further  ventures  would  they  now  resign, 

But  lo  !  Pizarro  traces  with  his  sword 

Along  drear  Gallo's  sand  the  telling  line 

From  west  to  east,  and  thus  his  band  addressed :  — 

"  On  that  side,  comrades,  toil  and  hunger  wait, 

Battle  and  death,  —  for  some  their  lives  must  lose,  — 

On  this  side,  truly,  safety  lies, —but  ah! 

On  that,  the  glory  of  a  splendid  state, 

On  this  but  poverty  and  Panama. 

Now,  as  becomes  the  brave  Castilian,  choose! 

"As  for  myself,  I  go  towards  the  south; 
Let  who  will  follow "  :  and  he  passed  that  bound 
Like  Rubicon,  enduring,  though  in  sand ! 
Spurred  by  the  doughty  foot  and  daring  mouth. 


GUIANA.  207 

Then  followed  thirteen  of  his  little  band; 

The  die  was  cast,  —  at  length  Peru  was  found  ! 

When  powers  that  serve  thee,  flag,  since  foiled  so  long, 

Summon  them,  soul !     Draw  what  Pizarro  drew ; 

Point  to  that  land  of  riches,  this  of  lack; 

Speak  as  he  spake,  then  cross  the  line  as  strong, 

Leaving  poor  Panama  behind  thy  back, 

To  find  at  last  the  glory  of  Peru! 

Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 


Guiana. 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH, 

IN   1617. 

/"^UI  ANA'S  opulence  of  bloom  and  fruit, 

vJ  Its  clustering  pyramids  of  solid  rock, 

Its  cataracts'  might  and  beauty  of  cascade, 

Its  glimpses  of  sierras  meeting  heaven, 

The  wonders  of  its  forests  and  its  streams, — 

All  these  Sir  Walter's  eyes  had  looked  upon 

Full  twenty  years  before.     His  vivid  pen 

Had  pictured  this  great  kingdom,  far  and  fair, 

When  in  his  noon  of  power;  —  this  is  his  night. 

There  wait  no  more  his  queen's  all-pardoning  smiles, 

But  a  dark  sentence  and  a  fatal  frown, 

Since  promised  gold  he  cannot  win  for  James  ; 

If  aught  there  be  —  safe  in  Spain's  iron  clutch, 


208  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

No  chance  remains  of  wrenching  it  away. 

The  poor  discoverer  knows,  alas !  too  well 

That  gold  alone  can  lengthen  out  the  glow 

Of  life's  fast  narrowing  day, — that  gold  alone 

Can  light  the  hard,  cold  face  of  Tyranny ; 

Yet,  lo  !  gray,  worn,  and  desolate,  he  turns  — 

With  Disappointment  only,  and  a  crew 

In  whose  foiled  hearts  is  room  for  mutiny, — 

With  these  alone  —  to  launch  for  England's  shore ! 

The  faithful  Kemys,  whose  unswerving  love 

Had  shared  the  Tower  and  faced  the  fearful  rack, 

Pierced  by  his  master's  first  word  of  reproach, 

Had  pierced  himself  straightway  with  blade  and  ball ; 

So  Raleigh's  strongest  friend  was  in  the  grave ; 

So,  too,  his  gallant  son,  just  fallen  in  fight ; 

Ay,  and  a  third,  for  Hope  is  buried  now  ! 

The  poet  in  him  is  not  dead  perhaps, 

Nor  lost  the  dear  remembrance  of  his  queen. 

The  royal  water-lilies  floating  thick 

Along  the  river-banks,  may  well  recall 

That  other  distant  day  Avhen,  homeward  bound, 

He  thought,  in  passing  these,  what  regal  tilings 

To  give  the  regal  woman  that  he  served ; 

Yet,  in  their  beauty,  oh  !  how  like  they  are 

To  his  own  youthful  love,  Elizabeth, 

Who  waits  him  now,  an  anxious,  long-tried  wife, 

Whose  full  devotion  will  outlast  his  breath, 

Yea,  nine-and-twenty  years,  till  hushed  her  own ! 

For  her  a  living  love  beats  at  his  heart, 

But  dark  foreboding  overshadows  all, 

Nor  his,  to-day,  that  signal  valorous  cheer 


LAGUAYRA.  209 

So  soon  to  mark  his  exit  from  the  earth. 
If  all  the  alternations  of  his  life 
Between  his  rise  to  power  and  fall  therefrom 
Were  noted,  —  all  between  the  day  when  first 
He  bowed  his  head  in  homage  to  the  queen, 
And  that  wherein  he  bowed  it  on  the  block, — 
What  fate  in  all  the  "  History  of  the  World  "  — 
Unfinished  monument  of  prisoned  years, 
Unfinished  product  of  his  splendid  mind  — 
Could  stir  the  thought  to  deeper  sympathy, 
To  quicker  sense  of  this  world's  fickleness, 
Or  of  the  great  injustice  of  a  king  ! 

Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 


Laguayra. 

THE  MOUNTAIN  ROAD  FROM  LAGUAYRA  TO  CARACCAS. 

AT  midnight  we  (my  friends  and  I), 
Beneath  a  tranquil  tropic  sky, 
Bestrode  our  mules,  and  onward  rode 
Behind  the  guide,  who  swiftly  strode 
Up  the  dark  mountain-side,  while  we 
With  mingled  jest  and  repartee, 
And  jingling  spurs,  and  swords,  and  bits, 
Made  trial  of  our  youthful  wits. 
Ah  !  we  were  gay,  for  we  were  young, 
And  care  had  never  on  us  flung  — 
But  to  my  tale:  the  tranquil  sky 


210  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Was  thick  o'erlaid  with  burning  stars, 

And  oft  the  breeze  that  murmured  by 

Brought  dreamy  tones  of  soft  guitars, 

Until  we  sank  in  silence  deep. 

It  was  a  night  for  thought,  not  sleep, 

It  was  a  night  for  song  and  love ; 

The  blazing  planets  shone  above, 

The  Southern  Cross  was  all  ablaze,  — 

'T  is  long  since  it  then  met  my  gaze !  — 

Above  us,  whispering  in  the  breeze ; 

Were  many  strange,  gigantic  trees, 

And  in  their  shadow,  deep  and  dark, 

Slept  many  a  pile  of  mouldering  bones; 

For  tales  of  murder  fell  and  stark 

Are  told  by  monumental  stones 

Flung  by  the  passer's  hand,  until 

The  place  grows  to  a  little  hill. 

Up  through  the  shade  we  rode,  nor  spoke, 

Till  suddenly  the  morning  broke. 

Beneath  we  saw  in  purple  shade 

The  mighty  sea ;   above  displayed 

A  thousand  gorgeous  hues  which  met 

In  tints  that  I  remember  yet, 

But  which  I  may  not  paint,  my  skill, 

Alas  !   would  but  depict  them  ill !  — 

E'en  Claude  has  never  given  hints 

On  canvas  of  such  splendid  tints  ! 

The  mountains  which  ere  dawn  of  day 

I'd  likened  unto  friars  gray, 

Gigantic  friars  clad  in  gray, 

Now  stood  like  kings  wrapped  in  the  fold 


PAMPAS,    THE.  211 

Of  gorgeous  clouds  around  them  rolled, 
Their  lofty  heads  all  crowned  with.  gold. 
And  many  a  painted  bird  went  by, 
Strange  to  my  unaccustomed  eye, 
Its  plumage  mimicking  the  sky. 
O'er  many  a  league  and  many  a  mile  — 
Crag,  pinnacle,  and  lone  defile  — 
All  Nature  woke,  woke  with  a  smile, 
As  though  the  morning's  golden  gleam 
Had  broken  some  enchanting  dream, 
Yet  left  its  soft  impression  still 
On  lofty  peak  and  dancing  rill. 

James  Barron  Hope. 


Pampas,   The. 

THE  SOVEKEIGN  OF  THE  PAMPAS. 

MORNING  upon  the  lone  and  silent  Pampas, 
Those  dewless  plains  of  long  and  stirless  grass 
O'erarched  by  skies  unshadowed  by  a  cloud, 
And  all  unbroken  in  their  sea-like  calm, 
Except  where,  here  and  there,  a  parching  palm 
Uprears  its  barren  stem,  and  marks  to  sight 
Some  space  between  the  mingling  earth  and  heaven, 
Or  musky  odors  of  the  arid  ground 
Thicken  the  air,  amid  whose  torrid  heat 
Rise  vapory  columns  like  the  smoke  of  fires  ! 
Solemn  and  still  those  vast  savannas  reach 


212  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Through  level  solitudes  of  countless  miles, 
"Unsought  by  man,  and  whose  untrodden  depths 
No  taint,  perchance,  have  borne  of  human  death ! 
And  thus  they  seemed  upon  this  fervid  morn, 
When  the  hot  sun,  like  a  great  naming  eye, 
Saw  motion  mid  those  withering  waves  of  green, 
That  onward  swelled  from  the  horizon's  verge, 
And  stirred  to  life  a  myriad  hidden  things, 
That   fluttering    swarmed    from    midst    the    sheltering 

blades 

Before  the  advancing  dust  that  broke  their  rest, 
As,  panting,  snorting  in  their  thirsty  haste, 
A  troop  of  desert  horses  rushed  along, 
Trampling  the  crackling  verdure  in  their  race, 
Startling  the  brooding  silence  of  the  waste 
With  insect  voices  and  their  own  wild  tones. 
On,  on  they  dash,  creating  with  their  speed 
And  noisy  breaths  the  movement  of  a  wind, 
And  raining  foam  on  long  unwatered  soil. 
They  pause  ;  they  wheel ;  they  circle  in  a  group,  — 
Impatient  paw  the  ground,  —  take  counsel  short,  — 
Break,  —  toss  their  flowing  manes,  —  and  start  again, 
In  compact  throng,  towards  their  unreached  goal, 
Still  straining  bloodshot  eyes  in  search  of  streams, 
And  following  one  that  ever  leads  the  way, 
Chief  of  the  horde  in  speed,  in  grace,  in  choice, — 
A  chestnut  mare,  with  stately,  curving  neck, 
And  small,  proud  head,  that  on  the  forehead  bore 
A  snowy  star,  as  though  to  mark  command, 
Whose  tapering  limbs  had  borne  her  in  the  van, 
With  silky  hair  and  shining  coat  unflecked. 

Sallie  Bridges. 


PANAMA  (DARIEN).  213 

Panama  (Darien). 

THE  SHIP  CANAL -FROM  THE  ATLANTIC  TO  THE  PACIFIC. 

REND  America  asunder 
And  unite  the  binding  sea 
That  emboldens  man  and  tempers, — 
Make  the  ocean  free. 

Break  the  bolt  that  bars  the  passage, 
That  our  river  richly  pours 
Western  wealth  to  western  nations; 
Let  that  sea  be  ours,  — 

Ours  by  all  the  hardy  whalers, 
By  the  pointing  Oregon, 
By  the  west-impelled  and  working, 
Unthralled  Saxon  son. 

Long  indeed  they  have  been  wooing, 
The  Pacific  and  his  bride; 
Now  'tis  time  for  holy  wedding, — 
Join  them  by  the  tide. 

Have  the  snowy  surfs  not  struggled 
Many  centuries  in  vain 
That  their  lips  might  seal  the  union? 
Lock  them  main  to  main. 

When  the  mighty  God  of  nature 
Made  this  favored  continent, 


214  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

He  allowed  it  yet  unsevered, 
That  a  race  be  sent, 

Able,  mindful  of  his  purpose, 
Prone  to  people,  to  subdue, 
And  to  bind  the  land  with  iron, 
Or  to  force  them  through. 

What  the  prophet-navigator, 
Seeking  straits  to  his  Catais, 
But  began,  now  consummate  it  — 
Make  the  strait  and  pass. 

Blessed  the  eyes  that  shall  behold  it, 
When  the  pointing  boom  shall  veer, 
Leading  through  the  parted  Andes, 
While  the  nations  cheer! 

There  at  Suez,  Europe's  mattock 
Cuts  the  briny  road  with  skill, 
And  must  Darien  bid  defiance 
To  the  pilot  still? 

Do  we  breathe  this  breath  of  knowledge 
Purely  to  enjoy  its  zest  ? 
Shall  the  iron  arm  of  science 
Like  a  sluggard  rest? 

Up  then,  at  it !  earnest  people ! 
Bravely  wrought  thy  scorning  blade, 


PANAMA  (DARIEN).  215 

But  there's  fresher  fame  in  store  yet, 
Glory  for  the  spade. 

What  we  want  is  naught  in  envy, 
And  for  all  we  pioneer; 
Let  the  keels  of  every  nation 
Through  the  isthmus  steer. 

Must  the  globe  be  always  girded 

Ere  we  get  to  Bramah's  priest? 

Take  the  tissues  of  your  Lowells 

Westward  to  the  East. 

Ye,  that  vanquish  pain  and  distance, 
Ye,  enmeshing  Time  with  wire, 
Court  ye  patiently  forever 
Yon  Antarctic  ire  ? 

Shall  the  mariner  forever 
Double  the  impending  capes, 
While  his  longsome  and  retracting 
Needless  course  he  shapes? 

What  was  daring  for  our  fathers, 
To  defy  those  billows  fierce, 
Is  but  tame  for  their  descendants; 
We  are  bid  to  pierce. 

Ye  that  fight  with  printing  armies, 
Settle  sons  on  forlorn  track, 
As  the  Romans  flung  their  eagles, 
But  to  win  them  back. 


216  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Who,  undoubting,  worship  boldness, 
And,  if  baffled,  bolder  rise, 
Shall  we  lag  when  grandeur  beckons 
To  this  good  enterprise? 

Let  the  vastness  not  appall  us; 
Greatness  is  thy  destiny. 
Let  the  doubters  not  recall  us ; 
Venture  suits  the  free. 

Like  a  seer,  I  see  her  throning, 
Winland  strong  in  freedom's  health, 
Warding  peace  on  both  the  waters, 
Widest  Commonwealth. 

Crowned  with  wreaths  that  still  grow  greener, 
Guerdon  for  untiring  pain, 
For  the  wise,  the  stout,  and  steadfast : 
Rend  the  land  in  twain. 

Cleave  America  asunder, 
This  is  worthy  work  for  thee. 
Hark  !     The  seas  roll  up  imploring, 
"Make  the  ocean  free." 

•  Francis  Lieber. 


PANAMA  (DARIEN).  217 


BALBOA. 

FROM  San  Domingo's  crowded  wharf 
Fernandez'  vessel  bore, 
To  seek  in  unknown  lands  afar 

The  Indian's  golden  ore. 
And  hid  among  the  freighted  casks, 
Where  none  might  see  or  know, 
Was  one  of  Spain's  immortal  men, 
Three  hundred  years  ago  ! 

But  when  tke  fading  town  and  land 

Had  dropped  below  the  sea, 
He  met  the  captain  face  to  face, 

And  not  a  fear  had  he  ! 
"  What  villain  thou  ?  "  Fernandez  cried, 

"And  wherefore  serve  us  so  ?  " 
"To  be  thy  follower,"  he  replied 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

He  wore  a  manly  form  and  face, 

A  courage  firm  and  bold, 
His  words  fell  on  his  comrades'  hearts, 

Like  precious  drops  of  gold. 
They  saw  not  his  ambitious  soul; 

He  spoke  it  not  —  for  lo  ! 
He  stood  among  the  common  ranks 

Three  hundred  yeais  ago. 

But  when  Fernandez'  vessel  lay 
At  golden  Darien, 


218  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  murmur,  born  of  discontent, 
Grew  loud  among  the  men : 

And  with  the  word  there  came  the  act; 
And  with  the  sudden  blow 

They  raised  Balboa  from  the  ranks, 
Three  hundred  years  ago. 

And  while  he  took  command  beneath 

The  banner  of  his  lord, 
A  mighty  purpose  grasped  his  soul, 

As  he  had  grasped  the  sword. 
He  saw  the  mountain's  fair  blue  height 

Whence  golden  waters  flow ; 
Then  with  his  men  he  scaled  the  crags, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

He  led  them  up  through  tangled  brakes, 

The  rivulet's  sliding  bed, 
And  through  the  storm  of  poisoned  darts 

From  many  an  ambush  shed. 
He  gained  the  turret  crag  —  alone  — 

And  wept !  to  see  below, 
An  ocean,  boundless  and  unknown, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

And  while  he  raised  upon  that  height 

The  banner  of  his  lord, 
The  mighty  purpose  grasped  him  still, 

As  still  he  grasped  his  sword. 
Then  down  he  rushed  with  all  his  men, 

As  headlong  rivers  flow, 


PANAMA  (DAEIEN).  219 

And  plunged  breast-deep  into  the  sea, 
Three  hundred  years  ago. 

And  while  he  held  above  his  head 

The  conquering  flag  of  Spain, 
He  waved  his  gleaming  sword,  and  smote 

The  waters  of  the  main  : 
Tor  Rome !  for  Leon  !  and  Castile ! 

Thrice  gave  the  cleaving  blow ; 
And  thus  Balboa  claimed  the  sea, 

Three  hundred  years  ago. 

Thomas  Buchanan  Read. 


ON  A  HEADLAND  IN  THE  BAY  OF  PANAMA. 

TTAGUE  mystery  hangs  on  all  these  desert  places  ! 
•       The  fear  which   hath  no  name   hath   wrought  a 

spell ! 

Strength,  courage,  wrath,  have  been,  and  left  no  traces  ! 
They  came,  —  and  fled;  but  whither?  who  can  tell? 

We  know  but  that  they  were,  —  that  once  (in  days 
When  ocean  was  a  bar  'twixt  man  and  man), 

Stout  spirits  wandered  o'er  these  capes  and  bays, 
And  perished,  where  these  river-waters  ran. 

Methinks  they  should  have  built  some  mighty  tomb, 
Whose  granite  might  endure  the  century's  rain, 

White  winter,  and  the  sharp  night-winds  that  boom 
Like  spirits  in  their  purgatorial  pain. 


220  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

They  left,  'tis  said,  their  proud  unburied  bones 
To  whiten  on  this  unacknowledged  shore; 

Yet  naught  besides  the  rocks  and  worn  sea-stones 
Now  answers  to  the  great  Pacific's  roar  ! 

A  mountain  stands  where  Agamemnon  died : 
And  Cheops  hath  derived  eternal  fame, 

Because  he  made  his  tomb  a  place  of  pride ; 
And  thus  the  dead  Metella  earned  a  name. 

But  these,  —  they  vanished  as  the  lightnings  die 
(Their  mischiefs  over)  in  the  surging  deep; 

And  no  one  knoweth  underneath  the  sky, 

What  heroes  perished  here,  nor  where  they  sleep. 

Bryan  Waller  Procter. 


Peru. 

THE  DAMSEL  OF  PERU, 

TT7HERE  olive  leaves  were  twinkling  in  every  wind 
'  V  that  blew, 

There  sat  beneath  the  pleasant  shade  a  damsel  of  Peru. 
Betwixt  the  slender  boughs,  as  they  opened  to  the  air, 
Came  glimpses  of  her  ivory  neck  and  of  her  glossy  hair ; 
And  sweetly  rang  her  silver  voice,  within  that  shady 

nook, 

As  from  the  shrubby  glen  is  heard  the  sound  of  hidden 
brook. 


PERU.  221 

'Tis  a  song  of  love   and  valor,  in   the  noble  Spanish 

tongue, 
That  once   upon   the   sunny  plains    of  old  Castile  was 

sung ; 
When,  from  their  mountain  holds,  on  the  Moorish  rout 

below, 
Had  rushed  the  Christians  like  a  flood,  and  swept  away 

the  foe. 

Awhile  that  melody  is  still,  and  then  breaks  forth  anew 
A  wilder  rhyme,  a 'livelier  note,  of  freedom  and  Peru. 

A  white   hand  parts  the  branches,  a  lovely  face  looks 

forth, 
And  bright  dark  eyes  gaze  steadfastly  and  sadly  towards 

the  north. 
Thou  look'st  iii  vain,  sweet  maiden,  the  sharpest  sight 

would  fail, 

To  spy  a  sign  of  human  life  abroad  in  all  the  vale ; 
lor  the  noon  is  coming  on,  and  the  sunbeams  fiercely 

beat, 
And  the  silent  hills  and  forest-tops  seem  reeling  in  the 

heat. 

That  white  hand  is  withdrawn,  that  fair  sad  face  is  gone, 
But  the  music   of  that  silver  voice  is  flowing  sweetly 

on, 
Not  as  of  late,  in  cheerful  tones,  but  mournfully  and 

low,  — 

A  ballad  of  a  tender  maid  heart-broken  long  ago, 
Of  him  who  died  in  battle,  the  youthful  and  the  brave, 
And  her  who  died  of  sorrow,  upon  his  early  grave. 


222  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  see,  along  that  mountain's  slope,  a  fiery  horseman 

ride; 
Mark  his  torn  plume,  his  tarnished  belt,  the  sabre  at  his 

side.  .  > 

His  spurs  are  buried  rowel  deep,  he  rides  with  loosened 

rein, 
There  's  blood  upon  his  charger's  flank  and  foam  upon 

the  mane, 
He  speeds  him  toward  the  olive-grove,  along  that  shaded 

hill,  — 
God  shield  the  helpless  maiden  there,  if  he  should  mean 

her  ill ! 

And  suddenly  that  song  has  ceased,  and  suddenly  I  hear 
A  shriek  sent  up  amid  the  shade,  a  shriek  —  but  not 

of  fear. 

For  tender  accents  follow,  and  tenderer  pauses  speak 
The  overflow  of  gladness,  when  words  are  all  too  weak : 
"  I  lay  my  good  sword  at  thy  feet,  for  now  Peru  is  free, 
And  I  am  come  to  dwell  beside  the  olive-grove  with  thee." 

William  Cullen  Bryant. 


Puerto  Bella,  New   Granada. 

ADMIRAL  HOSIER'S  GHOST. 

AS  near  Porto  Bello  lying 
On  the  gently  swelling  flood, 
At  midnight,  with  streamers  flying, 
Our  triumphant  navy  rode; 


PUERTO    BELLO.  223 

There  where  Vernon  sat  all  glorious 

From  the  Spaniard's  late  defeat, 
And  his  crews  with  shouts  victorious, 

Drank  success  to  England's  fleet: 

On  a  sudden,  shrilly  sounding, 

Hideous  yells  and  shrieks  were  heard; 
Then  each  heart  with  fear  confounding1, 

A  sad  troop  of  ghosts  appeared, 
All  in  dreary  hammocks  shrouded, 

Which  for  winding-sheets  they  wore, 
And  with  looks  by  sorrow  clouded, 

Frowning  on  that  hostile  shore. 

On  them  gleamed  the  moon's  wan  lustre, 

When  the  shade  of  Hosier  brave 
His  pale  bands  were  seen  to  muster, 

Rising  from  their  watery  grave  : 
O'er  the  glimmering  wave  he  hied  him, 

Where  the  Burford  reared  her  sail, 
With  three  thousand  ghosts  besides  him, 

And  in  groans  did  Yernon  hail. 

Heed,  oh,  heed,  our  fatal  story, 

I  am  Hosier's  injured  ghost, 
You,  who  now  have  purchased  glory 

At  this  place  whore  I  was  lost; 
Though  in  Porto-Bello's  ruin 

You  now  triumph  free  from  fears, 
When  you  think  on  our  undoing, 

You  will  mix  your  joy  with  tears. 


224  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

See  these  mournful  spectres  sweeping 

Ghastly  o'er  this  hated  wave, 
Whose  wan  cheeks  are  stained  with  weeping, 

These  were  English  captains  brave  : 
Mark  those  numbers,  pale  and  horrid, 

Those  were  once  my  sailors  bold, 
Lo,  each  hangs  his  drooping  forehead, 

While  his  dismal  tale  is  told. 

I,  by  twenty  sail  attended, 

Did  this  Spanish  town  affright; 
Nothing  then  its  wealth  defended 

But  my  orders  not  to  fight : 
Oh,  that  in  this  rolling  ocean 

I  had  cast  them  with  disdain. 
And  obeyed  my  heart's  warm  motion 

To  have  quelled  the  pride  of  Spain; 

For  resistance  I  could  fear  none, 

But  with  twenty  ships  had  done 
What  thou,  brave  and  happy  Vernon, 

Hast  achieved  with  six  alone. 
Then  the  Bastimentos  never 

Had  our  foul  dishonor  seen, 
ISTor  the  sea  the  sad  receiver 

Of  this  gallant  train  had  been. 

Thus  like  thee,  proud  Spain  dismaying 
And  her  galleons  leading  home, 

Though  condemned  for  disobeying, 
I  had  met  a  traitor's  doom. 


PUERTO    BELLO.  225 

To  have  fallen,  my  country  crying 
He  has  played  an  English  part, 

Had  been  better  far  than  dying 
Of  a  grieved  and  broken  heart. 

Unrepining  at  thy  glory, 

Thy  successful  arms  we  hail ; 
But  remember  our  sad  story, 

And  let  Hosier's  wrongs  prevail. 
Sent  in  this  foul  clime  to  languish, 

Think  what  thousands  fell  in  vain, 
Wasted  with  disease  and  anguish, 

Not  in  glorious  battle  slain. 

Hence  with  all  my  train  attending 

From  their  oozy  tombs  below, 
Through  the  hoary  foam  ascending, 

Here  I  feed  my  constant  woe  : 
Here  the  Bastimcutos  viewing, 

We  recall  our  shameful  doom, 
And  our  plaintive  cries  renewing, 

Wander  through  the  midnight  gloom. 

O'er  these  waves  forever  mourning, 

Shall  we  roam  deprived  of  rest, 
If  to  Britain's  shore  returning, 

You  neglect  my  just  request; 
After  this  proud  foe  subduing, 

When  your  patriot  friends  you  see, 
Think  on  vengeance  for  my  ruin, 

And  for  England  shamed  in  me. 

Richard  Glover. 


226  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Bio  Janeiro,  Brazil. 

RIO  JANEIRO. 

ROCKS  piled  on  rocks  immense,  mountains  afar, 
Their  outline  bold,  drawn  on  the  lofty  sky. 
Dom  Pedro,  thou  art  safe  !     Thy  bulwarks  are 

Impregnable,  Brazilian  liberty  ! 
Faction  may  ruin  thee,  but  foreign  war 

Can  ne'er  assail  thy  strongholds.     Live  and  die 
Free,  then,  Brazilian !     See  how  bounteous  Heaven 
For  thy  defence  ramparts  of  rock  hath  given  ! 

Ye  pyramids  of  Egypt,  what  are  ye 

To  Nature's  pyramids,  unnumbered  here  ? 

Some  stand  like  watch-towers  distant  in  the  sea, 
As  't  were  to  signal  give  of  danger  near. 

Others  on  land  all  riven !     Perchance  they  be 
Remnants  of  giant  strife  full  many  a  year 

Forgot.     It  may  be  they  were  rent  asunder 

By  Titans  and  by  antediluvian  thunder. 

Hocks  piled  on  rocks  in  wild  confusion  rise, 
Mountains  uprear  their  snow-clad  peaks  afar, 

And  on  each  headland  bold,  strong  batteries 
Bespeak  the  infant  Empire  ripe  for  war. 

Then  the  broad  bay  that,  like  some  Scotch  loch,  lies 
Encircled  by  steep  hills,  but  lovelier  far; 

Its  thousand  isles  clothed  with  rich  verdure  seem 

All  beauteous  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream. 

John  Dtmmore  Lang. 


WEST    INDIES. 


INTRODUCTORY. 


DISCOVERY  OF  THE  ANTILLES. 

THE  winds  were  prosperous,  and  the  billows  bore 
The  brave  adventurer  to  the  promised  shore; 
Tar  in  the  west,  arrayed  in  purple  light, 
Dawned  the  new  world  on  his  enraptured  sight : 
Not  Adam,  loosened  from  the  encumbering  earth, 
Waked  by  the  breath  of  God  to  instant  birth, 
With  sweeter,  wilder  wonder  gazed  around, 
When  life  within  and  light  without  he  found; 
When,  all  creation  rushing  o'er  his  soul, 
He  seemed  to  live  and  breathe  throughout  the  whole. 
So  felt  Columbus,  when,  divinely  fair, 
At  the  last  look  of  resolute  despair, 
The  Hesperian  isles,  from  distance  dimly  blue, 
With  gradual  beauty  opened  on  his  view. 
In  that  proud  moment  his  transported  mind 
The  morning  and  the  evening  worlds  combined, 
And  made  the  sea,  that  sundered  them  before, 
A  bond  of  peace,  uniting  shore  to  shore. 


228  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Where  first  his  drooping  sails  Columbus  furled, 
And  sweetly  rested  in  another  world, 
Amidst  the  heaven-reflecting  ocean,  smiles 
A  constellation  of  elysian  isles; 
Pair  as  Orion  when  he  mounts  on  high, 
Sparkling  with  midnight  splendor  from  the  sky : 
They  bask  beneath  the  sun's  meridian  rays, 
When  not  a  shadow  breaks  the  boundless  blaze ; 
The  breath  of  ocean  wanders  through  their  vales 
In  morning  breezes  and  in  evening  gales  ; 
Earth  from,  her  lap  perennial  verdure  pours, 
Ambrosial  fruits  and  amaranthine  flowers ; 
O'er  the  wild  mountains  and  luxuriant  plains, 
Nature  in  all  the  pomp  of  beauty  reigns, 
In  all  the  pride  of  freedom.     Nature  free 
Proclaims  that  man  was  born  for  liberty. 
She  flourishes  where'er  the  sunbeams  play 
O'er  living  fountains,  sallying  into  day; 
She  withers  where  the  waters  cease  to  roll, 
And  night  and  winter  stagnate  round  the  pole  : 
Man,  too,  where  freedom's  beams  and  fountains  rise, 
Springs  from  the  dust,  and  blossoms  to  the  skies ; 
Dead  to  the  joys  of  light  and  life,  the  slave 
Clings  to  the  clod ;  his  root  is  in  the  grave  : 
Bondage  is  winter,  darkness,  death,  despair; 
Freedom  the  sun,  the  sea,  the  mountains,  and  the  air ! 

In  placid  indolence  supinely  blest, 
A  feeble  race  these  beauteous  isles  possessed ; 
Untamed,  untaught,  in  arts  and  arms  unskilled, 
Their  patrimonial  soil  they  rudely  tilled, 


INTRODUCTORY.  229 

Chased  the  free  rovers  of  the  savage  wood, 
Insnared  the  wild-bird,  swept  the  scaly  flood; 
Sheltered  in  lowly  huts  their  fragile  forms 
From  burning  suns  and  desolating  storms ; 
Or  when  the  halcyon  sported  on  the  breeze, 
In  light  canoes  they  skimmed  the  rippling  seas; 
Their  lives  in  dreams  of  soothing  languor  flew, 
No  parted  joys,  no  future  pains,  they  knew, 
The  passing  moment  all  their  bliss  or  care; 
Such  as  their  sires  had  been  the  children  were, 
From  age  to  age;  as  waves  upon  the  tide 
Of  stormless  time,  they  calmly  lived  and  died. 

*  *  * 

James  Montgomery. 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  ANTILLES. 

ONE  long  last  look !  —  the  sunset  clouds  yon  lonely 
island  shade, 
And  from  the  high  and  rolling  mast  I  watch  it  slowly 

fade. 
Soon  like  a  dream  't  will  vanish,  —  and  ah  !  what  dreams 

have  fled! 
What  feelings  born  in  olden  time   are  numbered  with 

the  dead ! 
What  hopes  have  shed  their  sunshine  that    nevermore 

can  be  ! 
Since  first  that  bright  and  sunny  shore  rose  o'er  the 

tropic  sea. 
A  thousand  thoughts  are  thronging  o'er  memory's  faded 

track, 


230  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

A  thousand  voices  of  the  Past  still  seem  to  call  me 
back, 

Still  dreams  are  clinging  round  me  that  now  't  were 
vain  to  tell  — 

Farewell,  ye  green  savannas  !  —  ye  waving  palms,  fare 
well  ! 

Ye  humble   hearts   and  willing  hands,  that  served  me 

long,  adieu! 
And  fare  thee  well,  my  bonny  steed,  so  trusty  and  so 

true. 
Farewell  the   merry  moonlight,  that  once   so   sweetly 

played 
On  those  who  roved  together  'neath  the  Faurestina's 

shade ! 
Farewell,  each  kind  familiar  face,  —  each  comrade  true 

and  tried  ! 
And  thou !  —  once  dearer  to  my  heart  than  all  the  world 

beside ! 

Henry  Howard  Brownell. 

CARRIBBEAM. 

THESE  Indian  isles,  so  green  and  gay, 
In  summer  seas  by  Nature  placed,  — 
Art  hardly  told  us  where  they  lay 
Till  tyranny  their  charms  defaced ; 
Ambition  there  her  conquests  made, 
And  avarice  rifled  every  shade ! 

The  Genius  wept,  his  sons  to  see 
By  foreign  arms  untimely  fall, 


INTRODUCTORY.  231 

And  some  to  distant  climates  flee 
Where  later  ruin  met  them  all : 
He  saw  his  sylvan  offspring  bleed 
That  fiercer  natures  might  succeed. 

The  chief  that  first  o'er  barren  waves 
To  these  fair  islands  found  his  way, 
Departing,  left  a  race  of  slaves, 
Cortez,  thy  mandate  to  obey; 
And  these  again,  if  fame  says  true, 
To  lord  it  o'er  the  savage  crew. 

No  more  to  Indian  coasts  confined,  — 
The  Genius  thus  indulged  his  grief; 
While  he  to  woe  his  heart  resigned, 
To  see  the  proud  European  chief        , 
Pursue  the  harmless  Indian  race, 
Torn  by  his  dogs  in  every  chase ! 

Ah,  what  a  change  !  the  ambient  deep 
No  longer  hears  the  lover's  sigli ; 
But  wretches  meet  to  wail  and  weep 
The  loss  of  their  dear  liberty; 
Unfeeling  hearts  possess  these  isles, 
Man  frowns,  and  only  Nature  smiles. 

Proud  of  these  vast  extended  shores 
The  haughty  Spaniard  calls  his  own, 
No  other  world  may  share  those  stores 
To  other  worlds  so  little  known; 
His  Cuba  lies  a  wilderness, 
Where  slavery  digs  what  slaves  possess. 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Jamaica's  sweet  romantic  vales 
In  vain  with  golden  harvests  teem, 
Her  endless  spring,  her  balmy  gales, 
Did  more  to  me  than  magic  seem;    • 
Yet  what  the  god  profusely  gave 
Is  there  denied  the  toiling  slave. 

Fantastic  joy  and  fond  belief 
Through  life  support  the  galling  chain, 
Hope's  airy  prospects  banish  grief, 
And  bring  his  native  climes  again; 
His  native  groves  his  heaven  display, 
The  funeral  is  the  joyous  day. 

For  man  reduced  to  such  disgrace 

In  vain  from  Jove  fair  virtue  fell: 

Distress  compels  him  to  be  base, 

He  has  no  motive  to  excel; 

In  death  alone  his  prospects  end, 

The  world's  worst  foe  is  his  best  friend. 

How  great  their  praise,  let  truth  declare 
Who,  smit  with  honor's  sacred  flame, 
Bade  freedom  to  these  coasts  repair, 
Assumed  the  slave's  neglected  claim, 
And  scorning  interest's  sordid  plan 
Proved  to  mankind  the  rights  of  man. 

Ascending  here,  may  this  warm  sun, 
With  freedom's  beams  divinely  clear, 
Throughout  the  world  his  circuit  run 
Till  these  dark  prospects  disappear, 
And  a  \ne\v  race,  not  bought  or  sold, 
Springs  from  the  ashes  of  the  old. 

Philip  Freneau. 


WEST  INDIES. 

Cuba,  the  Island. 

CUBA. 

FAIR  land  of  Cuba !  on  thy  shores  are  seen 
Life's  far  extremes  of  noble  and  of  mean, 
The  world  of  sense  in  matchless  beauty  dressed, 
And  nameless  horrors  hid  within  thy  breast. 
Ordained  of  Heaven  the  fairest  flower  of  earth, 
False  to  thy  gifts,  and  reckless  of  thy  birth! 
The  tyrant's  clamor,  and  the  slave's  sad  cry, 
With  the  sharp  lash  in  insolent  reply,  — 
Such  are  the  sounds  that  echo  on  thy  plains, 
While  virtue  faints,  and  vice  unblushing  reigns. 
Rise,  and  to  power  a  daring  heart  oppose  ! 
Confront  with  death  these  worse  than  deathlike  woes. 
Unfailing  valor  chains  the  flying  fate ; 
Who  dares  to  die  shall  win  the  conqueror's  state. 
We,  too,  can  leave  a  glory  and  a  name 
Our  children's  children  shall  not  blush  to  claim ; 
To  the  far  future  let  us  turn  our  eyes, 
And  up  to  God's  still  unpolluted  skies. 


234  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Better  to  bare  tlie  breast,  and,  undismayed, 
Meet  the  sharp  vengeance  of  the  hostile  blade, 
Than  on  the  couch  of  helpless  grief  to  lie, 
And  in  one  death  a  thousand  deaths  to  die. 
Nearest  thou  blood?     Oh,  better,  in  the  strife, 
From  patriot  wounds  to  pour  the  gushing  life, 
Than  let  it  creep  inglorious  through  the  veins 
Benumbed  by  sin  and  agony  and  chains  ! 
What  hast  thou,  Cuban?     Life  itself  resign, — 
Thy  very  grave  is  insecurely  thine  ! 
Thy  blood,  thy  treasure,  poured  like  tropic  rain 
Prom  tyrant  hands  to  feed  the  soil  of  Spain. 
If  it  be  truth,  that  nations  still  must  bear 
The  crushing  yoke,  the  wasting  fetters  wear, — 
If  to  the  people  this  be  Heaven's  decree, 
To  clasp  their  shame,  nor  struggle  to  be  free, 
From  truth  so  base  my  heart  indignant  turns, 
With  freedom's  frenzy  all  my  spirit  burns,  — 
That  rage  which  ruled  the  Roman's  soul  of  fire, 
And  filled  thy  heart,  Columbia's  patriot  sire  ! 
Cuba  !  thou  still  shalt  rise,  as  pure,  as  bright, 
As  thy  free  air,  —  as  full  of  living  light ; 
Free  as  the  waves  that  foam  around  thy  strands, 
Kissing  thy  shores,  and  curling  o'er  thy  sands  ! 
Jose  Maria  Heredia.     Tr.  W.  H.  Hurlbut. 


SEASON  OF  THE  NORTHERS. 

THE  weary  summer's  all-consuming  heat 
Is  tempered  now;  for  from  the  frozen  pole 
The  freed  north-winds  come  fiercely  rushing  forth, 


CUBA,    THE    ISLAND.  235 

Wrapt  in  their  mantles,  misty,  dim,  and  frore, 
While  the  foul  fever  flies  from  Cuba's  shore. 

Deep  roars  the  ocean,  heaving  high  his  breast, 
And  smites  the  beach  with  long  resounding  blows ; 
Zephyr  his  wings  in  dewy  freshness  bathes, 
And  floating  vapors  veil  transparently 
The  glowing  sun  and  the  resplendent  sky. 

Hail,  happy  days  !  whose  healing  might  o'erthrows 
The  bloody  shrine  which  May,  amid  her  flowers, 
Built  up  to  Death,  while  close  beside  her  stood 
Attendant  Fever,  ghastly  pale  and  fierce, 
A  gleaming  form,  clothed  on  with  Nature's  curse. 

With  threatening  eyes  the  kindred  spirits  saw 

The  white-browed  sons  of  milder  regions  move 

Beneath  the  terrors  of  this  tropic  sky; 

They  saw,  they  touched  them  with  the  fatal  rod, — • 

Their  frames  are  dust,  their  souls  are  with  their  God. 

But  their  fell  reign  is  o'er ;  the  northern  wind, 
Driving  the  noxious  poisons  from  the  air, 
Spreads  its  broad  wings  above  us,  moist  and  cool, 
And  echoing,  sweeps  upon  its  blessed  way, 
Bringing  us  rest  from  August's  sultry  day. 

O'er  the  far  fields  of  Europe's  gloomy  land 
Rushes  in  wrath  untamed  the  selfsame  blast, 
Spoiling  the  earth  of  verdure  and  of  life, 
Whelming  the  wreck  beneath  a  snowy  tomb, 
While  man  lies  shivering  in  his  frozen  home. 


236  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

There  all  is  death  and  grief;  but  Cuba  now 
Smiles  with  new  life  and  joy :  the  beaming  sun, 
His  glories  softened  by  translucent  clouds, 
Lends  a  new  lustre  to  the  grove  and  plain, 
And  wakes  them  all  to  joyous  spring  again. 

My  happy  land !  thou  favored  land  of  God, 

Where  rest  his  mildest  looks,  his  kindliest  smiles, 

Oh,  nevermore  from  thy  beloved  soil 

May  cruel  fortune  tear  me;  but  be  thine 

The  latest  light  that  on  these  eyes  shall  shine ! 

How  sweet,  dear  love,  to  listen  to  the  rain 
That  patters  softly  on  our  humble  home; 
To  hear  the  wild  winds  whistling  o'er  the  plain, 
And  the  deep  booming  of  the  ocean's  roar, 
Where  shattering  surges  lash  the  distant  shore  ! 

Here,  by  thy  side,  on  softest  couch  reclined, 
My  throbbing  lyre  shall  rest  upon  thy  knees, 
And  my  glad  heart  shall  sing  the  boundless  peace 
Of  thy  fair  soul,  the  light  of  thy  dear  face, 
My  happy  lot,  and  God's  surpassing  grace. 

Jose  Maria  Ileredia.     Tt\  W.  II.  Hurlbut. 


GAN-EDEN,  THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  ANTILLES, 

T7  NO  WEST  thou  that  isle  of  flowers, 
-IV    Where  the  softest  breezes  blow, 
And  the  Frost-king  never  spreadeth 
O'er  the  earth  his  pall  of  snow? 


CUBA,    THE    ISLAND.  237 

Where,  like  gray  old  marble  vases, 
Crowned  with  feathery  turfs  of  green, 

Royal  palm-trees  rise  majestic, 
With  the  cocoas  in  between? 

Where  the  purple-sheathed  banana 

Mingles  with  the  sugar-cane, 
And  the  fragrant  coffee  sheddeth 

Scarlet  berries  on  the  plain? 

Where  the  guava-apple  ripens, 
And  zapotes,  rough  and  brown, 

With  the  mamey  and  the  mango, 
Cast  their  luscious  sweetness  down? 

Where  whole  fields  of  ripening  anas 
With  their  fragrance  load  the  breeze, 

And  the  golden  orange  glistens 
Mid  the  blossoms  on  the  trees ; 

And  the  ever  green  pomegranate 

Swings  its  coral  flower-bells, 
When  its  ruby  grains  are  bursting 

Erom  their  russet-colored  shells? 

'Tis  the  Queen  of  the  Antilles, 

Seated  on  her  emerald  throne, 
Crowned  with  ever-blooming  flowers, 

And  a  beauty  all  her  own. 

With  a  grace  that's  truly  regal 
Sits  she  in  her  lofty  seat, 


338  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Watching  o'er  her  subject  islands 
In  the  ocean  at  her  feet. 

While  its  waters,  blue  as  heaven, 
Laughing  leap  upon  her  breast, 

Where  all  nature  ever  seemeth 
Tor  a  happy  bridal  drest. 

Truly  is  it  called  Gan-Eden,  — 

'Tis  a  garden  of  delight; 
But,  alas,  the  serpent's  trailing 

O'er  its  beauty  casts  a  blight. 
*  *  * 

Mary  Bayard  Clarke. 

ODE  OX  REVISITING  CUBA. 

ISLE  of  eternal  spring,  tliou  'rt  desolate 
To  me  ;    thy  limpid  seas,  thy  fragrant  shores, 
Whither  I  've  sighed  to  come 
And  make  a  tranquil  home, 

Have  lost  to  me  their  charm;  my  heart  deplores, 
Vainly,  of  two  it  loved,  the  melancholy  doom. 

Well  may  I  weep  you,  gentle  souls,  that  while 
On  earth  responded  to  the  love  of  mine, 
Through  eyes  of  heavenly  blue, 
More  deeply,  fondly  true, 
Haply,  than  He,  who  lent  his  breath  divine, 
May  give  again  on  earth  to  cheer  me  with  their  smile. 

My  George,  if  thou  hadst  faults,  they  only  were 
That  thou  wert  gifted  ill  for  this  poor  sphere 


CUBA,    THE    ISLAND.  239 

Where  first  lie  faints  who  spares 
Earth's  selfish,  sordid  cares; 
And  what  might  faults  to  baser  eyes  appear, 
When  ta'en  where  angels  dwell,  must  be  bright  virtues 
there. 

Men  toil,  betray,  nay,  even  kill,  for  gold ; 

But  had  some  wretch  pressed  by  misfortune  sore 
Asked  thy  last  piece  of  thee 
To  ease  his  misery, 

When  thou  couldst  only  look  to  Heaven  for  more, 
That  last  piece  had  been  given,  and  thine  own  safety 
sold. 

Oft  when  the  noisome  streams  of  pestilence 
Poisoned  the  air  around  thee,  hast  thou  stayed 
By  friends,  while  thirsty  Death 
Lurked  near,  to  quaff  their  breath ; 
And  soothed  and  saved  while  others  were  afraid, 
And  hardier  hearts  and  hands  than  thine  rushed  wildly 
thence. 

Oh,  could  I  find  thee  in  some  palm-leaf  cot, 
Still  for  this  earth,  with  thy  sweet  brothers  too, 
Though  scarce  our  worldly  hoard 
Sufficed  a  frugal  board, 

Hope  should  beguile  no  more :    I  'd  live  for  you, 
Disclaim  all  other  love  —  and  sing,  and  bless  my  lot. 


How  could  I  kneel  and  kiss  the  hand  of  Fate, 
Were  it  but  mine  to  decorate  some  hall  — 


240  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Here,  where  the  soil  I  tread 
Colors  my  feet  with  red  — 
Ear  down  these  isles,  to  hear  your  voices  call, 
Then  haste  to  hear  and  tell  what  happed  while  separate  ! 

Beautiful  isles  !    beneath  the  sunset  skies 
Tall  silver  shafted  palm-trees  rise  between 
Full  orange-trees  that  shade 
The  living  colonnade  ; 

Alas  !  how  sad,  how  sickening,  is  the  scene 
That  were  ye  at  my  side  would  be  a  paradise  ! 

E'en  one  of  those  cool  caves  which,  light  and  dry, 
In  many  a  leafy  hillside,  near  this  spot, 
Seem  as  by  Nature  made 
For  shelter  and  for  shade 
To  such  as  bear  a  homeless  wanderer's  lot, 
Were  home  enough  for  me,  could  those  I  mourn  be 
nigh. 

Palace  or  cave  (where  'neath  the  blossom  and  lime 
Whiter  lies  hid  with  wreaths)  alike  may  be, 
If  love  and  taste  unite, 
A  dwelling  for  delight, 

And  kings  might  leave  their  silken  courts  to  see 
O'er  such  wild,  garnished  grot  the  grandiflora  climb. 

Thus,  thus,  doth  quick-eyed  Fancy  fondly  wait 
The  pauses  of  my  deep  remorse  between; 
Before  my  anxious  eyes 
'T  is  thus  her  pictures  rise ; 

They  show  what  is  not,  yet  what  might  have  been ; 
Angels,  why  came  I  not  ?  —  why  have  I  come  too  late  ? 


CUBA,    THE    ISLAND.  241 

The    cooling    beverage  —  strengthening    draught  —  as 

craved 

The  needs  of  both,  could  but  these  hands  have  given ; 
Could  I  have  watched  the  glow  — 
The  pulse,  too  quick,  or  slow — 
My  earnest,  fond,  reiterate  prayers  to  Heaven, 
Some  angel  might  have  come,  besought,  returned,  and 
saved. 

To  stay  was  imbecility  —  nay,  more  — 

'T  was  crime  —  how  yearned  my  panting  heart  to  see, 
When,  by  mere  words  delayed, 
'Gainst  the  strong  wish,  I  stayed 
(Trifling  with  that  which  inly  spoke  to  me), 
And  longed,  and  hoped,  and  feared,  till  all  I  feared  was 
o'er ! 

Mild,  pitying  George,  when  maple  leaves  were  red 
O'er  Ladaiianna,  in  his  much-loved  north, 

Breathed  here  his  last  farewell  — 

And  when  the  tears  that  fell 
From  April,  called  Mohecan's  violets  forth, 
Edgar,  as  following  his,  thy  friendly  spirit  fled. 

Now,  side  by  side,  'neath  cross  and  tablet  white 
Is  laid,  sweet  brothers,  all  of  you  that's  left; 

Yet,  all  the  tropic  dew 

Can  damp  would  seem  not  you : 
Your  finer  particles  from  earth  are  reft, 

Haply  (and  so  I  '11  hope)  for  lovelier  forms  of  light. 
*  *  * 

Maria,  Broo&s. 


242  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 


FAREWELL  TO  CUBA. 

ADIEU,  fair  isle  !    I  love  thy  bowers, 
I  love  thy  dark-eyed  daughters  there, 
The  cool  pomegranate's  scarlet  flowers 
Look  brighter  in  their  jetty  hair. 

They  praised  my  forehead's  stainless  white! 

And  when  I  thirsted,  gave  a  draught 
From  the  full  clustering  cocoa's  height, 

And  smiling,  blessed  me  as  I  quaffed. 

Well  pleased,  the  kind  return  I  gave, 
And  clasped  in  their  embraces'  twine, 

Felt  the  soft  breeze,  like  Lethe's  wave, 
Becalm  this  beating  heart  of  mine. 

Why  will  my  heart  so  wildly  beat? 

Say,  seraphs,  is  my  lot  too  blest, 
That  thus  a  fitful,  feverish  heat 

Must  rifle  me  of  health  and  rest? 

Alas !    I  fear  my  native  snows  — 

A  clime  too  cold,  a  heart  too  warm  — 

Alternate  chills,  alternate  glows  — 

Too  fiercely  threat  my  flower-like  form. 

The  orange-tree  has  fruit  and  flowers; 

The  grenadilla,  in  its  bloom, 
Hangs  o'er  its  high,  luxuriant  bowers, 

Like  fringes  from  a  Tyrian  loom. 


CUBA,    THE    ISLAND.  243 

When  the  white  coffee  blossoms  swell, 
The  fair  moon  full,  the  evening  long, 

I  love  to  hear  the  warbling  bell, 

And  sunburnt  peasant's  wayward  song. 

Drive  gently  on,  dark  muleteer, 

And  the  light  seguidilla  frame; 
Earn  would  I  listen  still  to  hear 

At  every  close  thy  mistress'  name. 

Adieu,  fair  isle !  the  waving  palm. 

Is  pencilled  on  thy  purest  sky ; 
Warm  sleeps  the  bay,  the  air  is  balm, 

And,  soothed  to  languor,  scarce  a  sigh 

Escapes  for  those  I  love  so  well, 

For  those  I've  loved  and  left  so  long; 

On  me  their  fondest  musings  dwell, 
To  them  alone  my  sighs  belong. 

On,  on,  my  bark !  blow,  southern  breeze, 
No  longer  would  I  lingering  stay; 

'T  were  better  far  to  die  with  these 
Than  live  in  pleasure  far  away. 

Maria  Brooks. 


DR.  KANE  IN  CUBA. 

A  NOBLE  life  is  in  thy  care, 
A  sacred  trust  to  thee  is  given; 
Bright  Island  !   let  thy  healing  air 
Be  to  him  as  the  breath  of  Heaven. 


244  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  marvel  of  his  daring  life  — 

The  self-forgetting  leader  bold; 
Stirs,  like  the  trumpet's  call  to  strife, 

A  million  hearts  of  meaner  mould. 

Eyes  that  shall  never  meet  his  own 
Look  dim  with  tears  across  the  sea, 

Where  from  the  dark  and  icy  zone, 

Sweet  Isle  of  Flowers  !  he  comes  to  thee. 

Fold  him  in  rest,  O  pitying  clime  ! 

Give  back  his  wasted  strength  again ; 
Soothe,  with  thy  endless  summer  time, 

His  winter-wearied  heart  and  brain. 

Sing  soft  and  low,  tliou  tropic  bird, 
From  out  the  fragrant,  flowery  tree,  — 

The  ear  that  hears  thee  now  has  heard 
The  iec-break  of  the  winter  sea. 

Through  his  long  watch  of  awful  night, 
He  saw  the  Bear  in  Northern  skies; 

Now,  to  the  Southern  Cross  of  light 
He  lifts  in  hope  his  weary  eyes. 

Prayers  from  the  hearts  that  watched  in  fear, 
When  the  dark  North  no  answer  gave, 

Rise,  trembling,  to  the  Father's  ear, 
That  still  His  love  may  help  and  save. 

Elizabeth  H.  Whither. 


CUBA,    THE    ISLAND.  245 


CUBA. 

WHAT  sounds  arouse  me  from  my  slumbers  light  ? 
"  Land  ho  !  all  hands,  ahoy  ! "  —  I  'm  on  the  deck : 
'T  is  early  dawn :   the  day-star  yet  is  bright ; 
A  few  white  vapory  bars  the  zenith  fleck ; 
And  lo !  along  the  horizon,  bold  and  high, 
The  purple  hills  of  Cuba  !     Hail,  all  hail ! 
Isle  of  undying  verdure,  with  thy  sky 
Of  purest  azure  !     Welcome,  odorous  gale  ! 
O  scene  of  life  and  joy !  thou  art  arrayed 
In  hues  of  unimagined  loveliness. 
Sing  louder,  brave  old  mariner !   and  aid 
M}r  swelling  heart  its  rapture  to  express  ; 
For,  from  enchanted  memory,  nevermore 
Shall  fade  this  dawn  sublime,  this  fair,  resplendent  shore. 

Epes  Sargent. 

CUBA. 

CUBA  seems 

The  later  western  Eden  of  our  planet. 
What  wafted  incense  from  the  gate  of  dreams, 

What  heavenly  zephyrs  hover  o'er  and  fan  it ! 

With  groves  of  orange,  mango,  and  pomegranate, 
And  flowering  forests  through  whose  wealth  of  blooms, 
Like  living  fires,  dart  birds  of  gorgeous  plumes. 

There  by  still  bays  the  tall  flamingo  stands  ; 
The  sunrise  flame  of  whose  reflected  form 


246  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Crimsons  the  glassy  wave  and  glistening  sands. 
There,  large  and  luminous,  throughout  the  warm, 
Soft  summer  eves  myriads  of  fireflies  swarm; 
Like  the  bright  spirits  of  departed  flowers 
Nightly  revisiting  their  native  bowers.. 

Its  own  rich,  varying  world  the  isle  enfolds ; 

Where  glowing  Nature  seems  most  prodigal 
Of  life  and  beauty;  where  the  eye  beholds 

Orchards  that  blossom  while  their  ripe  fruits  fall; 

Mountains,  refulgent  vales ;  and,  curved  round  all, 
Prom  some  palm-crested  summit  seen  afar, 

The  gleaming  ocean's  steel-bright  scimitar. 
*  *  * 

John  Townsend  Trowbridge. 


Havana,   Cuba. 

THE  TOMB  OF  COLUMBUS. 

AN  old  cathedral,  with  its  columned  aisle, 
And   shrines,    and   pictured   saints  !     The   sun  yet 

lingered 

On  Cuzco's  mountains,  and  the  fragrant  breath 
Of  unknown  tropic  flowers  came  o'er  my  path, 
Wafted  —  how  pleasantly  !  for  I  had  been 
Long  on  the  seas,  and  their  salt  wavcless  glare 
Had  made  green  fields  a  longing.     At  the  port 
I  left  our  bark,  with  her  tired  mariners  ; 
And  wandered  on,  amid  gay-colored  dwellings, 


HAVANA.  247 

Through  the    great   square,  and   through  the  narrow 

streets, 
Till  this  old  fane,  inviting,  stayed  my  steps. 

While  all  alone,  in  the  religious  silence 

And  pensive  spirit  of  the  place,  I  stood 

By  the  High  Altar,  —  near  it,  on  the  wall, 

A  tablet  of  plain  marble  met  my  view, 

Modestly  wrought,  —  whereon  an  effigy, 

And  a  few  simple  words  in  a  strange  tongue, 

Telling  "  Here  lies  Columbus."     And  that  niche,  — 

That  narrow  space  held  all  now  left  of  him 

For  whom  the  ancient  world  was  once  too  little  ! 

But  where  were  they, — the  fetters  that  had  bound 
Those  patient,  manly  limbs  ?  the  gift  of  Spain 
To  him  who  gave  a  world?  (in  the  king's  name 
'T  was  written  thus,)  —  he  kept  them  to  the  last, 
And  charged  they  should  lie  with  him  in  the  grave. 

No  loftier  tomb?  metheught  he  should  have  lain 
Enshrined  in  some  vast  pile,  some  gorgeous  dome, 
Reared  by  Castile  to  him  who  made  her  name 
Great  in  the  nations*    But  he  needs  them  not. 

And  haply,  it  is  meeter  thus  for  him 
To  rest  surrounded  by  his  own  high  deeds,  — 
Like  the  great  builder  laid  beneath  the  temple 
He  reared.     "  If  thou  wouldst  view  his  monument, 
Look  round  thee."     No  severe  majestic  column,  — • 
No  mountain-piled,  eternal  pyramid,  — 


248  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Such  as  a  world  might  raise  to  its  discoverer, 
Marks  his  repose.     But  the  keel-crowded  port, 
And  the  green  island,  and  the  waving  palms, 
And  the  deep  murmur  of  a  peopled  city, 
And  the  great  ocean  whitened  with  new  sails, 
And  the  wide  continent  stretching  beyond,  — 
All,  in  a  voice  more  eloquent  than  words,  — 
Inscription,  —  told  of  him  that  lived  and  died. 

And  mine  own  being —     Haply,  but  for  thee 

(If,  in  the  tangled  chain  of  crossed  events 

We  shudder  now  to  dwell  upon,  this  soul 

Had  'scaped  the  fatal  blank  of  non-existence), 

Even  now,  I  might  have  slaved  in  some  old  sea-port, 

Bowed  to  the  oar,  —  or  delved  in  Hunnish  mines, 

A  serf,  —  or  toiled  a  reaper  in  the  fields 

Of  "merry  England," — none  too  merry  now! 

How  quiet  and  how  peaceful  seemed  his  rest 
Prom  his  long  labors  !  —  all  was  calm  repose. 
Within,  such  holy  stillness,  —  but,  alas  ! 
Without,  (sole  stain  on  that  great  honored  name,) 
A  dismal  sound  of  fetters  !  the  chain-gang 
Passing  just  then,  with  its  accursed  clank. 

Long  by  that  simple  tomb  I  lingered,  —  long 
Gazed  with  an  awe  more  reverent  than  the  pile 
Heaped  over  king  or  kaiser  could  inspire. 
On  those  calm,  resolute  features  ye  might  read, 
As  in  a  book,  his  strange,  eventful  story. 
There  was  the  faith;  the  long-enduring  hope, 
More  than  Ulyssean ;  the  courage  high,  — 


HAVANA.  249 

That  fought  the  infidel,  —  and  with  stout  heart, 
Clung  to  the  shattered  oar,  which  bore  a  greater 
Than  Csesar  and  his  fortunes,  —  and  when  all 
Cried  out  "  We  sail  to  Death ! "  held  firmly  on 
Through  storm  and  sunshine.     In  those  furrowed  lines, 
As  on  some  faithful  chart,  might  still  be  traced 
The  weary  voyaging  of  many  years  : 
That  restless  spirit  pent  in  narrow  limits, 
Yet  ever  looking  with  unquiet  eye, 
Beyond  old  landmarks,  —  with  unwearied  soul, 
Still  searching,  prying  into  the  unknown, 
And  hoarding  richer  sea-lore,  —  till  at  last, 
Possessed  and  haunted  of  one  grand  belief,  — 
One  mighty  thought  no  wretchedness  could  lay. 

The  weary  interval,  —  eighteen  long  years, 
Wandering  from  court  to  court,  —  his  wondrous  tale 
Lost  in  half-heeding,  dull,  incredulous  ears. 
The  patient  toil,  —  the  honorable  want, 
Endured  so  nobly,  —  in  his  threadbare  coat, 
Mocked  by  the  rabble,  —  the  half-uttered  jeer,  — 
And  the  pert  finger  tapping  on  the  head. 
May  Heaven  accord  us  patience !  as  to  him. 

And  now,  a  wayworn  traveller,  where,   Rabida ! 
Thy  lonely  convent  overlooks  the  sea 
(Soon  to  be  furrowed  by  ten  thousand  keels), 
He  waits,  preferring  no  immodest  suit,  — 
A  little  bread  and  water  for  his  boy, 
O'ertasked  with  travel  ?  then  the  welcome  in, 
And  the  good  friar,  —  saints  receive  his  soul ! 


250  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  now  (the  audience  gained)  at  Salamanca, 

Before  them  all,  a  simple  mariner, 

He  stands,  unawed  by  the  solemnity 

Of  gowns  and  caps, — with  courteous,  grave  demeanor, 

And  in  plain  words  unfolds  his  noble  purpose. 

Embarked,  and  on  the  seas,  — at  last !  at  last ! 
The  toil  of  a  long  life,  —  a  deathless  name,  — 
The  undetermined  fates  of  all  to  come,  — 
Staked  on  his  prow,  —  it  is  no  little  thing 
Will  turn  aside  that  soul,  long  resolute 
(Though  every  heart  grow  faint,  and  every  tongue 
Murmur  in  mutiny)  to  hold  its  course, 
Onward,  still  onward,  through  the  pathless  void, 
The  lone  untravelled  wilderness  of  waves,  — 
Onward  !  still  onward !  we  shall  find  it  yet ! 

And  next  (0  sad  and  shameful  sight !)  exposed 
On  the  high  deck  of  a  returning  bark, 
(Returning  from  that  land  so  lately  found ! ) 
A  spectacle  !  those  aged,  honored  limbs, 
Gyved  like  a  felon's,  while  the  hooting  crowd 
Sent  curses  in  her  wake.     But  when  arrived, 
Again  exalted,  favored  of  the  crown, 
And  courted  by  the  noblest,  —  who  forgets, 
With  his  gray  hairs  uncovered,  how  he  knelt 
Before  his  royal  mistress  (that  great  heart, 
Nor  insult,  nor  disgrace,  nor  chains  could  move, 
O'ercome  with  kindness),  weeping  like  a  child? 

Lastly,  his  most  resigned  and  Christian  end; 
When,  now  aware  of  the  last  hour  approaching, 


HAVANA.  231 

He  laid  the  world,  so  long  pursued,  aside; 
Forgave  his  foes,  and  setting  decently 
His  house  in  order,  with  his  latest  breath 
Commended  that  great  soul  to  Him  who  gave  it, 
Who  seldom  hath  received  or  given  a  greater. 

Thus  loitering  in  the  many-peopled  past, 

And  haunted  by  old  thoughts,  the  twilight  shadows 

O'ertook  me,  still  beside  the  sepulchre 

Reclined  in  pleasant  gloom,  and  loath  to  leave. 

Anon  a  train  of  dark-stoled  priests  swept  in, 

And  chanted  forth  old  hymns.     Was  it  profane 

To  deem  their  holy  strain  a  requiem 

O'er  him,  whose  mighty  ashes  lay  enshrined 

So  near  his  Maker  ?  but  for  whom,  perchance, 

The  sound  of  anthem  and  of  chant  sublime, 

And  old  Te  Deum's  solemn  majesty, 

Had  never  echoed  in  the  Western  World. 

Along  each  vaulted  aisle  the  sacred  tones 

Floated,  and  swelled,  and  sank,  and  died  away. 

So  all  departed, —  and  among  the  rest, 

That  spell  upon  my  soul  yet  lingering, 

I  went  my  way,  —  and,  passing  to  our  ship, 

Culled  a  few  flowers,  yet  springing  on  tho  spot, 

Where,  wearied  with  long  travail  o'er  the  deep, 

He  landed  (so  they  tell),  and  said  the  mass, 

Beneath  a  tall  and  goodly  Ceiba-tree. 

But  that  is  gone,  —  and  all  will  soon  be  gone. 

Henri/  Howard  Brownell. 


252  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


EL  PASEO. 

CLOUDLESSLY  burning  in  sapphire  aloft, 

vJ    Eve  touches  the  grove  with  an  orange  light, 

And  a  sea-born  zephyr,  whispering  soft 

To  me  as  I  stroll  in  the  shade  to-night, 
Balmily  wooing  me,  kissing  my  cheeks 

With  a  moist  and  perfumed  breath  so  dear, 
Of  billow  and  blossom  deliciously  speaks, 

Eor  with  both  it  hath  dallied  in  journeying  here. 

And,  leisurely  sauntering  to  and  fro 

In  a  magical  day-dream  all  my  own, 
I  gaze  at  the  beautiful  dames  that  go 

In  their  open  volantes  up  and  down; 
Bewitchingly  floating,  by  threes  and  by  twos, 

In  their  gauzy  cloudlets  of  silk  and  of  lace, 
That  seem  to  have  robbed  the  sky  of  its  hues, 

And  seem  to  have  robbed  the  swan  of  his  grace ; 

Bright  rosy-lipped  creatures  with  opaline  smiles, 

That  slowly  in  ripples  of  light  expire, 
Or  wanton  with  arch  and  womanish  wiles, 

Or  flit  with  a  faint  and  delicate  fire; 
With  their  tresses  more  dusk  than  the  raven's  plume, 

Wavily  parting  and  flowing  from  cheeks 
Aglow  with  the  ripe  and  luxuriant  bloom 

In  which  their  tropical  nature  speaks. 

In  a  gaudy  procession  they  pass  and  return, 
Voluptuous  beauties  in  manner  and  mould, 
With  their  black  Spanish  eyes  that  languish  and  burn, 


HAVANA.  253 

Now  temptingly  tender  now  tauntingly  bold; 
Or,  borne  in  an  indolent  semi-repose., 

Beguiled  by  the  sensuous  charm  of  the  hour, 
Go  dreamily  on,  as  the  white  swan  goes 

O'er  waters  that  wander  by  hamlet  and  bower. 

And,  lazily  loitering  here  and  there, 

Under  the  shadow  of  murmuring  limes, 
Puffing  a  redolent  smoke  in  the  air, 

Lulled  by  the  peal  of  the  vesper  chimes, 
By  the  fountain's  trill,  by  the  ocean's  roll, 

By  the  languor  and  calm  of  the  eventide, — 
To  all  its  sweet  ravishment  yielding  the  soul, 

There  lounges  many  a  group  by  my  side; 

Till  the  lingering  glory  wavers  and  wanes 

From  shadowy  slope  and  from  glimmering  height 
And  the  tall  royal  palm  alone  retains 

In  the  sheaf  of  its  leaves  a  roseate  light, 
Till  the  marvellous  night  steals  into  the  skies, 

And  white  in  the  moon  lie  the  land  and  the  sea, 
And  the  women  are  gone  with  their  beautiful  eyes, 

And  the  luminous  stars  are  blinking  o'er  me. 

And  lonely  musing  under  the  limes, 

The  wandering  breeze,  like  a  friend  at  my  ear, 
Doth  hum  an  old  music  that  hints  of  old  times, 

Old  faces,  old  friends,  and  old  memories  dear; 
And  my  vision  is  blurred,  and  my  heart  is  afar 

In  the  land  that  it  loves  where  the  snow  still  lies, 
In  the  home  that  it  loves  with  a  lady  rare, 

And  blest  in  the  light  of  her  soft  northern  eyes. 

Thomas  Durfee. 


254  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


FAREWELL  TO  HAVANA. 

MY  sight  is  blank,  my  heart  is  lorn; 
My  tropic  trance  of  joy  I  mourn,  — 
That  stolen  summer  of  delight, 
Dreamed  on  the  breast  of  wintry  night, 
When  sad,  true  souls  abide  the  North, 
And  we,  love-truants,  issued  forth 
To  find,  with  steady  sail  unfurled, 
The  glowing  centre  of  the  world. 

The  glorious  sights  went  fleeting  by; 
I  had  no  hold  on  earth  or  sky  : 
Two  little  hands,  one  helpless  heart, 
Could  claim  and  keep  so  small  a  part. 
A  shadow  of  the  stately  palm; 
A  burnish  of  the  noontide  calm ; 
A  dream  of  faces  new  and  strange, 
Darkened  and  lit  with  sudden  change; 
A  joy  of  flowers  unearthly  fair 
In  giant  Nature's  tangled  hair; 
A  joy  of  fruits  of  other  hue 
And  savor  than  my  childhood  knew; 
A  sorrow,  as  the  vista  grew, 
Longer  and  lesser,  cherished  too  ; 
A  pang  of  parting,  heart-bereft 
Of  all  I  had, —  is  all  I've  left. 

Towards  the  rude  heights  where  Winter  reigns, 
What  love-nursed  thought  shall  shield  my  breast 
Warmer  than  cloak  or  sable  vest? 


JAMAICA,    THE    ISLAND.  255 

One  hope  serene  all  comfort  brings,  — 
Who  made  thy  bonds  did  lend  thy  wings ; 
Who  sends  thee  from  this  faery  reign 
Once  brought  thee  here,  and  may  again. 

Julia  Ward  Howe. 


Jamaica,  the  Island. 

PORT  ROYAL. 

OLD  Port  Royal,  in  the  island  of  Jamaica,  contained  more  than  fifteen 
hundred  buildings,  and  these  for  the  most  part  large  and  elegant.  This 
unfortunate  town  was  for  a  long  time  reckoned  the  most  considerable 
mart  of  trade  in  the  West  Indies.  It  was  destroyed  on  the  l?th  of  June, 
1602,  by  an  earthquake,  which  in  two  minutes  sunk  the  far  greater  part 
of  the  buildings ;  by  which  disaster  nearly  three  thousand  people  lost  their 
lives. 

HERE,  by  the  margin  of  the  murmuring  main, 
While  her  proud  remnants  I  explore  in  vain, 
And  lonely  stray  through  these  dejected  lands 
Fanned  by  the  noontide  breeze  on  burning  sands, 
Where  the  dull  Spaniard  once  possessed  these  shades, 
And  ports  defended  by  his  palisades,  — 
Though  lost  to  us,  Port  Royal  claims  a  sigh, 
Nor  shall  the  Muse  the  unenviea  verse  deny. 
Of  all  the  towns  that  graced  Jamaica's  isle, 
This  was  her  glory,  and  the  proudest  pile, 
Where  toils  on  toils  bade  wealth's  gay  structures  rise, 
And  commerce  swelled  her  glory  to  the  skies ; 
St.  Jago,  seated  on  a  distant  plain, 
• 


256  POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

Ne'er  saw  the  tall  ship  entering  from  the  main, 
Unnoticed  streams  her  Cobra's  margin  lave, 
Where  yond'  tall  plantains  shade  her  glowing  wave, 
And  burning  sands  or  rock-surrounded  hill 
Confess  its  founder's  fears,  or  want  of  skill. 

While  o'er  these  wastes  with  wearied  step  I  go, 
Past  scenes  of  death  return,  in  all  their  woe, 
O'er  these  sad  shores  in  angry  pomp  he  passed, 
Moved  in  the  winds,  and  raged  with  every  blast. 
Here  opening  gulfs  confessed  the  Almighty  Hand, 
Here  the  dark  ocean  rolled  across  the  land, 
Here  piles  on  piles  an  instant  tore  away, 
Here  crowds  on  crowds  in  mingled  ruin  lay, 
Whom  fate  scarce  gave  to  end  their  noonday  feast, 
Or  time  to  call  the  sexton  or  the  priest. 
Where  yond'  tall  barque,  with  all  her  ponderous  load, 
Commits  her  anchor  to  its  dark  abode, 
Eight  fathoms  down,  where  unseen  waters  flow 
To  quench  the  sulphur  of  the  caves  below, 
There  midnight  sounds  torment  the  sailor's  ear, 
And  drums  and  fifes  play  drowsy  concerts  there, 
Sad  songs  of  woe  prevent  the  hours  of  sleep, 
And  Fancy  aids  the  fiddlers  of  the  deep; 
Dull  Superstition  hears  the  ghostly  hum, 
Smit  with  the  terrors  of  the  world  to  come. 

What  now  is  left  of  all  your  boasted  pride ! 
Lost  are  those  glories  that  were  spread  so  wide. 
A  spit  of  sand  is  thine,  by  Heaven's  decree, 
And  wasting  shores  that  scarce  resist  the  sea : 
Is  this  Port  Royal  on  Jamaica's  coast, 
The  Spaniard's  envy  and  the  Britain's  boast ! 


MATANZAS.  257 

A  shattered  roof  o'er  every  hut  appears, 
And  mouldering  brick-work  prompts  the  traveller's  fears  ; 
A  church,  with  half  a  priest,  I  grieve  to  see, 
Grass  round  its  door,  and  rust  upon  its  key  !  — 
One  only  inn  with  tiresome  search  I  found, 
Where  one  sad  negro  dealt  his  beverage  round. 

Philip  Freneau. 


Matanzas,   Cuba. 

THE  SEA-BREEZE  AT  MATANZAS. 

AFTEU  a  night  of  languor  without  rest,  — 
Striving  to  sleep,  yet  wishing  morn  might  come 
By  the  pent,  scorching  atmosphere  oppressed, 
Impatient  of  the  vile  mosquito's  hum, — 
With  what  reviving  freshness  from  the  sea, 
Its  airy  plumage  glittering  with  the  spray, 
Comes  the  strong  day -breeze,  rushing  joyously 
Into  the  bright  arms  of  the  encircling  bay ! 
It  tempers  the  keen  ardor  of  the  sun; 
The  drooping  frame  with  life  renewed  it  fills ; 
It  lashes  the  green  waters  as  they  run; 
It  sways  the  graceful  palm-tree  on  the  hills ; 
It  breathes  of  ocean  solitudes,  and  caves, 
Luminous,  vast,  and  cool,  far  down  beneath  the  waves. 

Epes  Sargent, 


258  POEMS   OF   PLACES. 

Saint  Christopher,  the  Island. 

SAINT  CHRISTOPHER. 

SUCH,  green  Saint  Christopher,  thy  happy  soil !  — 
Not  Grecian  Tempe,  where  Arcadian  Pan, 
Knit  with  the  Graces,  tuned  his  sylvan  pipe, 
While  mute  Attention  hushed  each  charmed  rill; 
Not  purple  Enna,  whose  irriguous  lap, 
Strewed  with  each  fruit  of  taste,  each  flower  of  smell, 
Sicilian  Proserpine,  delighted,  sought, 
Can  vie,  blest  isle,  with  thee.     Though  no  soft  sound 
Of  pastoral  stop  thine  echoes  e'er  awaked; 
Nor  raptured  poet,  lost  in  holy  trance, 
Thy  streams  arrested  with  enchanting  song: 
Yet  virgins,  far  more  beautiful  than  she 
Whom  Pluto  ravished,  and  more  chaste,  are  thine: 
Yet  probity,  from  principle,  not  fear, 
Actuates  thy  sons,  bold,  hospitable,  free; 
Yet  a  fertility,  unknown  of  old, 
To  other  climes  denied,  adorns  thy  hills; 
Thy  vales,  thy  dells  adorns. 

James  Grainger. 


SAN    SALVADOR,    THE    ISLAND.  259 

San  Salvador,  the  Island. 

SAN  SALVADOR, 

IT  was  a  land  unmarred  by  art, 
To  please  the  eye  and  cheer  the  heart: 
The  natives'  simple  huts  were  seen 
Peeping  their  palmy  groves  between, — 
Groves,  where  each  dome  of  sweepy  leaves 
In  air  of  morning  gently  heaves, 
And,  as  the  deep  vans  fall  and  rise. 
Changes  its  richly  verdant  dyes  ; 
A  land  whose  simple  sons  till  now 
Had  scarcely  seen  a  careful  brow; 
They  spent  at  will  each  passing  day 
In  lightsome  toil  or  active  play. 
Some  their  light  canoes  were  guiding, 
Along  the  shore's  sweet  margin  gliding. 
Some  in  the  sunny  sea  were  swimming, 
The  bright  waves  o'er  their  dark  forms  gleaming ; 
Some  on  the  beach  for  shell-fish  stooping, 
Or  on  the  smooth  sand  gayly  trooping; 
Or  in  linked  circles  featly  dancing 
With  golden  braid  and  bracelet  glancing. 
By  sheltered  door  were  infants  creeping, 
Or  on  the  shaded  herbage  sleeping ; 
Gay  feathered  birds  the  air  were  winging, 
And  parrots  on  their  high  perch  swinging, 
While  humming-birds,  like  sparks  of  light, 
Twinkled  and  vanished  from  the  sight. 

Joanna  Baillie. 


260  POEMS   OF    PLACES. 


THE  LANDING  OF  COLUMBUS. 

LONG  on  the  deep  the  mists  of  morning  lay,' 
Then  rose,  revealing,  as  they  rolled  away, 
Half-circling  hills,  whose  everlasting  woods 
Sweep  with  their  sable  skirts  the  shadowy  floods; 
And  say,  when  all,  to  holy  transport  given, 
Embraced  and  wept  as  at  the  gates  of  heaven, 
When  one  and  all  of  us,  repentant,  ran, 
And,  on  our  faces,  blessed  the  wondrous  Man, — 
Say,  was  I  then  deceived,  or  from  the  skies 
Burst  on  my  ear  seraphic  harmonies  ? 
"  Glory  to  God ! "  unnumbered  voices  sung, 
"  Glory  to  God ! "  the  vales  and  mountains  rung, 
Voices  that  hailed  Creation's  primal  mom, 
And  to  the  shepherds  sung  a  Saviour  born. 

Slowly,  bare-headed,  through  the  surf  we  bore 
The  sacred  cross,  and,  kneeling,  kissed  the  shore. 
But  what  a  scene  was  there?    Nymphs  of  romance, 
Youths  graceful  as  the  Faun,  with  eager  glance, 
Spring  from  the  glades  and  down  the  alleys  peep, 
Then  headlong  rush,  bounding  from  steep  to  steep, 
And  clap  their  hands,  exclaiming  as  they  run, 
"  Come  and  behold  the  Children  of  the  Sun  !  " 
When,  hark  !  a  signal-shot !     The  voice,  it  came 
Over  the  sea  in  darkness  and  in  flame  ! 
They  saw,  they  heard;  and  up  the  highest  hill, 
As  in  a  picture,  all  at  once  were  still ! 
Creatures  so'  fair,  in  garments  strangely  wrought, 
From  citadels,  with  Heaven's  own  thunder  fraught, 


SAN    SALVADOR,    THE    ISLAND.  261 

Checked  tlieir  light  footsteps, — statue-like  they  stood, 
As  worshipped  forms,  the  Genii  of  the  Wood ! 

At  length  the  spell  dissolves  !    The  warrior's  lance 
Rings  on  the  tortoise  with  wild  dissonance ! 
And  see,  the  regal  plumes,  the  couch  of  state ! 
Still,  where  it  moves,  the  wise  in  council  wait ! 
See  now  borne  forth  the  monstrous  mask  of  gold, 
And  ebon  chair  of  many  a  serpent-fold; 
These  now  exchanged  for  gifts  that  thrice  surpass 
The  wondrous  ring,  and  lamp,  and  horse  of  brass. 
What  long-drawn  tube  transports  the  gazer  home, 
Kindling  with  stars  at  noon  the  ethereal  dome  ? 
'T  is  here :  and  here  circles  of  solid  light 
Charm  with  another  self  the  cheated  sight; 
As  man  to  man,  another  self  disclose, 
That  now  with  terror  starts,  with  triumph  glows  ! 

*  *  * 

Soon  from  the  bay  the  mingling  crowd  ascends, 
Kindred  first  met !  by  sacred  instinct  friends  ! 
Through  citron  groves,  and  fields  of  yellow  maize, 
Through  plantain- walks  where  not  a  sunbeam  plays. 
Here  blue  savannas  fade  into  the  sky, 
There  forests  frown  in  midnight  majesty; 
Ceiba,  and  Indian  fig,  and  plane  sublime, 
Nature's  first-born,  and  reverenced  by  Time ! 
There  sits  the  bird  that  speaks  !  there,  quivering,  rise, 
Wings  that  reflect  the  glow  of  evening  skies! 
Half  bird,  half  fly,  the  fairy  king  of  flowers 
Reigns  there,  and  revels  through  the  fragrant  hours ; 
Gem  full  of  life,  and  joy,  and  song  divine, 
Soon  in  the  virgin's  graceful  ear  to  shine. 


262  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

'T  was  lie  that  sung,  if  ancient  fame  speaks  truth, 
"  Come !  follow,  follow  to  the  Fount  of  Youth  ! 
I  quaff  the  ambrosial  mists  that  round  it  rise, 
Dissolved  and  lost  in  dreams  of  Paradise  ! 
For  there  called  forth,  to  bless  a  happier  hour, 
It  met  the  sun  in  many  a  rainbow-shower! 
Murmuring  delight,  its  living  waters  rolled 
Mid  branching  palms  and  amaranths  of  gold  ! " 

Samuel  Rogers. 


Santa  Cruz. 

SANTA  CEUZ. 

"DETWIXT  old  Cancer  and  the  midway  line, 
D  In  happiest  climate  lies  this  envied  isle  : 
Trees  bloom  throughout  the  year,  soft  breezes  blow. 
And  fragrant  Flora  wears  a  lasting  smile. 

Cool,  woodland  streams  from  shaded  cliffs  descend, 
The  dripping  rock  no  want  of  moisture  knows, 
Supplied  by  springs  that  on  the  skies  depend, 
That  fountain  feeding  as  the  current  flows. 

*  *  * 

Sweet  verdant  isle,  through  thy  dark  woods  I  rove, 
And  learn  the  nature  of  each  native  tree, 
The  fustic  hard,  the  poisonous  manchineel 
Which  for  its  fragrant  apple  pleaseth  thee, 

Alluring  to  the  smell,  fair  to  the  eye, 

But  deadliest  poison  in  the  taste  is  found  — 


SANTA -CRUZ.  263 

Oh,  shun  the  dangerous  tree,  nor  touch,  like  Eve, 
This  interdicted  fruit,  in  Eden's  ground. 

The  lowly  mangrove,  fond  of  watery  soil, 
The  white-barked  gregory,  rising  high  in  air, 
The  mastic  in  the  woods  you  may  descry; 
Tamarind,  and  lofty  bay-trees  nourish  there. 

Sweet  orange  groves  in  lonely  valleys  rise 
And  drop  their  fruits,  unnoticed  and  unknown, 
The  cooling  acid  limes  in  hedges  grow, 
The  juicy  lemons  swell  in  shades  their  own. 

Soft,  spongy  plums  on  trees  wide-spreading  hang, 
Bell^-pples  here,  suspended,  shade  the  ground, 
Plump  grenadilloes,  and  guavas  gray, 
With  melons,  in  each  plain  and  vale  abound. 

The  conic-formed  cashew,  of  juicy  kind, 
That  bears  at  once  an  apple  and  a  nut ; 
Whose  poisonous  coat,  indignant  to  the  lip, 
Doth  in  its  cell  a  wholesome  kernel  shut. 

The  prince  of  fruits,  which  some  jayama  call, 
Anana  some,  the  happy  flavored  pine, 
In  which  unite  the  tastes  and  juices  all 
Of  apple,  quince,  peach,  grape,  and  nectarine, 

Grows  to  perfection  here,  and  spreads  his  crest, 

His  diadem  towards  the  parent  sun; 

His  diadem,  in  fiery  blossoms  drest, 

Stands  armed  with  swords,  from  potent  Nature  won. 


264  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  chief  the  glory  of  these  Indian  isles 
Springs  from  the  sweet,  uncloying  sugar-cane  : 
Hence  comes  the  planter's  wealth,  hence  commerce  sends 
Such  floating  piles,  to  traverse  half  the  main. 

Whoe'er  thou  art  that  leav'st  thy  native  shore 
And  shalt  to  fair  West  India  climates  come, 
Taste  not  the  enchanting  plant,  —  to  taste  forbear, 
If  ever  thou  wouldst  reach  thy  much-loved  home. 

Ne'er  through  the  Isle  permit  thy  feet  to  rove, 
Or,  if  thou  dost,  let  prudence  lead  the  way, 
Forbear  to  taste  the  virtues  of  the  cane, 
Forbear  to  taste  what  will  complete  thy  stay. 

Whoever  sips  of  this  enchanting  juice, 
Delicious  nectar,  fit  for  Jove's  own  hall, 
Returns  no  more  from  his  loved  Santa  Cruz, 
But  quits  his  friends,  his  country,  and  his  all. 
*  *  * 

Philip  Freneau. 

SANTA  CRUZ. 

SWEEP  down  to  the  sea,  0  ye  silent  hills, 
Forever  green  and  bright, 

With  palms  on  your  breasts  like  heavenly  hosts, 
Clothed  in  your  robes  of  light ! 

Sweep  up  to  the  shore,  O  malachite  waves, 
Rippling,  tinted,  and  deep ! 


SANTA    CRUZ.  265 

On  ocean  and  lulls,  0  tropical  sun, 
In  glowing  splendor  sleep ! 

Ah!  so  far  away  is  the  shining  sand 

Where  low,  white  breakers  curl, 
Where  lovely  and  still  lies  the  quiet  isle, 

Like  emerald  set  in  pearl! 

Ah!   so  far  away;  yet  here  in  my  heart, 

As  on  that  Southern  Sea, 
This  beautiful  isle  rests  soft  and  real, — 

Canaan  of  memory ! 

The  waters  may  roll  o'er  measureless  miles; 

The  land  lie  long  between 
That  isle  and  this  self  over  whom  gray  skies 

Of  Northern  winter  lean; 

But  the  spirit  is  free  and  knows  not  space; 

Dreams  draw  the  distant  near; 
I  soar  o'er  that  sea,  I  roam  on  those  hills, 

And  see  their  glory  here ! 

Sarah  Bridges  Stebbins. 


THE  OUTLOOK  FROM  SANTA  CRUZ. 

E  ships  are  anchored  in  the  bay, 
The  weary  ships  with  haven  won; 
Encompassed  by  the  purple  waves 
Beneath  the  brilliant  tropic  sun  ! 
At  last  upon  the  summer  sea, 
Untossed,  at  rest,  they  quiet  lie; 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

In  idle  ease,  scarce  darkened  o'er 
By  fleecy  clouds  in  azure  sky! 

Far  off  upon  the  horizon's  verge 

A  white-sailed  sloop  speeds  far  from  sight, 
Like  some  glad  bird  whose  outspread  wings 

Cleave  straight  into  the  realms  of  light ! 
It  leaves  behind  the  fair,  green  isle, 

The  waters  rosy  on  the  reef, 
To  seek  a  shore,  o'er  ocean  gray, 

Where  Winter  withers  bud  and  leaf! 

Like  those  moored  vessels,  worn  with  storms, 

Now  sheltered  safe  in  harbor  calm, 
We  too  repose  through  glowing  days 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  palm  ! 
But  ah  !    our  thoughts  are  like  the  bark 

That  sweeps  across  the  sounding  main ! 
Love  wafted  from  bright,  softer  clime 

To  our  own  land  of  cold  and  rain ! 

Sarah  Bridges  Stebbins. 


THE  HILLS  OF  SANTA  CRUZ. 

SOLEMN  and  still  beneath  the  deep  blue  sky 
The  island  hills  in  billowy  calm  repose, 
And  all  the  splendor  of  the  day  and  night 
In  quiet  floods  adown  their  surface  flows. 

Morn  breaks  across  them  'twixt  the  waiting  clouds, 
As  in  the  Temple,  through  the  cherub  wings 


SANTA    CRUZ.  26? 

The  glory  of  the  Lord  burst  o'er  the  ark, 
To  his  High  Priest  revealing  sacred  things. 

Noon  languid  dreams  upon  the  russet  cones, 
Spreading  o'er  verdant  slopes  her  golden  veil; 

And  hears  the  music  of  dell-hidden  rills, 

As  through  a  sleep  steal  tones  of  lulling  tale. 

The  sunset  canopies  with  wreaths  of  flame 

And  rose-fringed  floating  fleece  each  curving  height, 

As  shadows  dark  into  the  hollows  fall, 

While  still  the  summits  soar  in  glowing  light. 

The  sable  curtain  of  the  sombre  night 

With  awful  blackness  screens  their  stately  heads, 

Save  when  prismatic  star-rays  rend  the  gloom, 
Or  tropic  moon  a  silver  radiance  sheds. 

At  every  season  they  are  grand  and  fair; 

Storms  leave  no  change  upon  their  graceful  steeps ; 
The  majesty  of  silence  crowns  their  brows, 

The  holiness  of  peace  upon  them  sleeps. 

For  Nature's  adoration  is  in  hills,  — 

Her  mighty  arms  forever  raised  in  prayer ! 

Earth's  very  soul  seems  breathing  from  their  lines, 
And  man  is  nearer  God  and  Heaven  there  ! 

Sarah  Bridges  Stebbins. 


POEMS    OF   PLACES. 

p4 

Trinidad,  the  Island. 

POKT-OF-SPAIN. 

WHERE  down  the  purple  slope  that  slants 
Across  the  hills,  the  sun-rays  glance 
With  hot  stare  through  the  cocoa-trees, 
And  wine-palms  tent  beside  the  seas, 
To  Port-of- Spain,  long  leagues  away, 
Just  as  the  mellow  mist  of  day 
Was  glowing  in  the  east,  there  came 
A  wayworn  man,  whose  feeble  frame 
And  weary  step  and  silent  tears 
Meant  more  of  sorrow  than  of  years. 
But  when  he  saw  the  seaport  town, 
With  houses  bamboo-thatched  and  brown, 
And  marked  each  winding  lane  and  street, 
Cool-shaded  from  the  tropic  heat, 
He  bent  him  prone  upon  the  ground 
Tor  this,  —  that  he  at  last  had  found 
What  brought  a  worn  heart  hope  of  rest. 
*  *  * 

The  night  was  hot,  and  faint,  and  still,  — 

The  moon,  above  the  wooded  hill, 

A  line  of  silver  lances  pressed 

Across  the  sea-waves  to  the  west. 

The  bell-bird,  with  metallic  throat, 

Sounded  a  dull  and  doleful  note, 

And  in  the  distant  depths  of  wood 


YUMURI,    THE    VALLEY.  269 

The  bittern  broke  the  solitude. 

But,  save  the  sound  of  sea  and  bird, 

Scarce  anything  the  silence  stirred. 

Latham  Cornell  Strong. 


Yumuri,  the   Valley,   Cuba. 

THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  YUMURI. 


WHEN  the  dull  gray  mists  of  the  morning 
Hung  over  the  land  and  sea, 
We  rode  to  the  heights  o'erlooking 

The  Vale  of  the  Yumuri:     • 
Thither  we  rode,  and  waited 

Till  the  sun,  like  an  Angel  of  Light, 
Touched  with  transfiguring  glory 

The  vaporous  ghost  of  night. 
While  over  the  sea  behind  us 

The  clouds  yet  darkly  lie, 
They  are  silvery  on  the  hillsides, 

They  are  crimsoned  up  in  the  sky; 
And  with  noiseless  smoke-surf  drifting 

And  breaking  on  palmy  knolls, 
With  its  great  drop-curtain  lifting, 

The  tropical  scene  outrolls  ! 
In  the  lap  of  the  verdant  mountains, 

In  many  a  mural  chain, 
Here  ripens  the  golden  orange, 


270  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Here  sweetens  the  sugar-cane ; 
Not  fairer  the  Happy  Yalley 

Of  the  Abyssinian  tale, 
And  the  giant  Pan  of  Matanzas 

Is  monarch  of  the  vale. 
With  glistening  eyes,  as  of  childhood, 

O'er  the  summer  hills  I  glance, 
With  eyes  that  the  unfamiliar 

Enchants  with  the  hues  of  romance. 
Oh,  I  stood  there,  as  youth  stands  ever, 

With  the  morning  light  on  the  earth, 
Yet  near  the  veiled  ocean,  shadowing 

The  mystery  of  birth. 

n. 
We  rode  through  the  valley  at  evening: 

A  golden  sunset  burned, 
And  against  it  the  piny  summits 

Were  black,  as  we  returned; 
The  mountain  shadows  lengthened, 

The  sun  went  down  behind, 
And  in  streamers  of  rosy  color 

Grew  the  twilight  arch  defined. 
With  luminous  interspaces 

Of  that  glory  in  the  west, 
The  feathering  palm-trees  tapered 

Up  from  each  hillock's  crest, 
Than  columns  of  human  temples 

More  tall  and  graceful  far; 
Their  broad  leaves  faintly  silvered 

By  the  rays  of  the  evening  star. 


YUMURI,    THE   VALLEY.  271 

It  was  beautiful  as  a  vision ! 

But  we  passed  a  gap  in  the  hills, 
By  a  river,  —  and  lo !  the  ocean 

The  vast  horizon  fills  ! 
No  more  as  it  was  at  morning, 

Wrapped  in  a  misty  cloud, 
It  stretched  to  the  north  in  its  grandeur, 

With  the  gathering  night  its  shroud; 
And  I  thought  of  the  valley's  legend, 

Of  the  chief  in  battle  slain, 
Whose  soul  went  forth  as  thy  winds  go, 

Thou  melancholy  main ! 
Oh,  often  in  pleasant  places 

Our  lines  of  life  may  be, 
But  Joy  casts  a  shadow,  —  and  round  us 

Forever  flows  the  sea! 

William  Gibson. 


THE   END. 


4lh 


G 


'        6 


9   194; 


20  1947 

ik 


JUN  1£  1947 


LD  2l-!OOm-7. 


'39(402s) 


Longfellow 
Poems   of 

MAY    6 


'EC  2_Q 
3  118  III 


America. 


M1O3I56 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


